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Werner's 
Readings  and  Recitations 

No.  22 


COMPILED  AND  ARRANGED  BY 

ELISE    WEST 


<fo£m&r>* 


WI 


EDGAR  S.  WERNER  &  COMPANY 
NEW    YORK 


Copyright,  1800,  by  Edgar  S,  Werner  Publishing  &  Supply  Co. 


PREFACE. 


TN  arranging  and  compiling  this  book  of  recitations,  my 
purpose  has  been  to  present  a  series  of  selections  suitable 
not  only  for  the  platform  but  also  for  use  in  schools  and  in 
parlors. 

My  experience  as  a  teacher  has  been  that  it  is  especially 
difficult  to  find  good  orations  for  young  men  and  boys.  I 
have  proved  the  value  of  those  given  in  this  volume  at  prize 
contests  and  at  commencement  exercises  of  well-known 
schools. 

All  of  the  larger  prose  articles  have  been  cut  and  arranged 
by  me  in  the  way  that  has  seemed  most  effective  when  I 
have  either  given  them  myself  or  watched  them  given  before 
an  audience.  I  beg  pardon  of  the  author  and  the  public  for 
passages  where  I  have  substituted  words  of  my  own  in  place 
of  those  originally  printed.  Often  that  which  is  perfectly 
clear  when  read  is  not  so  when  spoken. 

My  thanks  are  due  to  Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  G.  P.  Put- 
nam's Sons,  the  Curtis  Publishing  Co.,  M.  Witmark  &  Sons, 
Frank  A.  Munsey,  George  Munro,  Hamlin  Garland,  Louise 
Imogen  Guiney,  Edmund  Vance  Cooke,  and  the  many  other 
authors  and  representatives  of  authors  who  have  allowed 
me  to  reprint  articles  over  which  they  hold  a  copyright.  In 
every  case  the  permission  asked  for  was  most  courteously 
granted.  E.  W. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

After  Grace 16 

All  for  a  Man. — Helen  M.  Winslow 140 

Annunciata. — Mary   Annable    Fanton ..... 113 

Autograph  Book  of  Blue. — H.  W.  Jakeway 126 

Balcony  Scene  from  "Cyrano  de  Bergerac." — Edmond  Rostand....  118 

Ballad  of  Sweet  P. — Virginia  Woodward  Cloud 153 

Battle  of  Shrewsbury. — Elbridge  S.  Brooks 77 

Betrothed. — Rudyard    Kipling 166 

Bob. — Henry  W.   Grady 61 

|  Bob  White. — Francis  Charles  McDonald 106 

m  Brief    Burlesque 73 

"Bud's  Charge." — Louis  E.  Van  Norman 82 

Capture  of  Major  Andre. — Chauncey  M.  Depew 48 

Character    Sketch 44 

Clown's  Baby. — Margaret  Vandegrift ._ 184 

Coon's   Lullaby 28 

Cupid's  Alley. — Austin  Dobson 89 

Dat  Gawgy  Watahmillon. — Edmund  Vance  Cooke 125 

Daughter  of  the  Desert — James  Clarence  Harvey 17 

Death  of  Harold. — Charles  Dickens ;  142 

Dollar. — Walter  S.  Logan 23 

Elijah   Brown 81 

|   Festival  of  Mars. — Elbridge  S.  Brooks 25 

Franz— Wells  T.  Hawks i 107 

Garfield. — Hon.  Frank  Fuller 87 

Halliday  Hunt  Breakfast.— Alfred  Stoddart 67 

He  and  She. — Edwin  Arnold 1 90 

House  of  Too  Much  Trouble. — Albert  Bigelow  Paine 15 

If  Love  Were  All.— Anthony  Hope 177 

Informal    Prayer 66 

In  May.— Edwin  M.  Stern .' 85 

James  Henry  in  School. — Emily  Selinger ')8 

[5] 

Werner's  Readings  No,   22. 


\* 


6  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Jest  of  Fate. — Sam  Walter  Foss 59 

Katie  an'  Me. — Edmund  Vance  Cooke 134 

Keepsakes    47 

Linette. — Florence    Folsom 1 33 

Little  Maid  and  the  Speckled  Hen.— E.  W.  Dennison 188 

Missing  Ships. — Albert  Laighton 52 

Mr.  Brown  Has  His  Hair  Cut 168 

My  Childhood's  Love. — Charles  Kingsley 112 

Naughty  Little  Comet.— Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox 36 

Ole  Bull's  Christmas. — Wallace  Bruce 171 

On  Board  the  Victory. — Ednah  Robinson 129 

On  the  Calendar 112 

Over  the  Hill.— E.  H.  Hastings 80 

Patience    123 

Platonic  Friendship. — James  M.  Barrie 29 

Price. — Tom  Masson 35 

Prophecy. — Florence  May  Alt 124 

Race  for  Life. — J.  Fenimore  Cooper 74 

Rose  of  Rome. — George  Henry  Galpin 144 

Sally  Ann's  Experience. — Eliza  Calvert  Hall 156 

Scotch   Witness , 123 

Siege  of  Cuautla — Bunker  Hill  of  Mexico. — Walter  S.  Logan 95 

Slight  Mistake.— Anthony  Hope 101 

Smith  and  the  King. — Edward  Carpenter 100 

Social    Glass -. 24 

Song  of  the  "Lower  Classes." — Ernest  Jones 34 

Student-Heroes  of  Our  War.— 'Charles  W.  Eliot 127 

Sunshine   Johnson 135 

Tarpeia. — Louise  Imogen  Guiney 91 

Ten-Hour  Bill. — Thomas  Babington  Macaulay 45 

Tousoulia. — Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 181 

Trying  the  "Rose  Act."— Marietta  Holley 54 

Two  Gray  Wolves. — Mary  Annable  Fanton 40 

Two  Simple  Little  Ostriches. — Juliet  W.  Tompkins 94 

Uncle  Ethan  Ripley's  Speculation. — Hamlin  Garland 9 

When  George  Was  King. — Theodosia  Pickering 14 

Witch. — Virginia  Woodward   Cloud 148 

Wrong  Time  to  Laugh * 187 

Young   Lochinvar. — Elise   West 37 

Werner's  Readings  No.   22. 


INDEX  TO  AUTHORS 


PAGE 


PAQB 


Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey. . .  181 

Alt,  Florence  May 124 

Arnold,  Edwin 190 

Barrie,  James  M 29 

Brooks,  Elbridge  S. . .  .25,  77 

Bruce,   Wallace 171 

Carpenter,  Edward 100 

Cloud,  Virginia  Woodward 

148,  153 

Cooke,  Edmund  Vance.125,  134 

Cooper,  J.  Fenimore 74 

Dennison,  E.  W 188 

Depew,  Chauncey  M 48 

Dickens,  Charles 142 

Dobson,  Austin 89 

Eliot,  Charles  W 127 

Eanton,  Mary  Annable.40,  113 

Folsom,  Florence 133 

Foss,  Sam  Walter 59 

Fuller,  Hon.  Frank 87 

Galpin,  George  Henry 144 

Garland,  Hamlin 9 

Grady,  Henry  W 61 

Guiney,  Louise  Imogen...  91 

Hall,  Eliza  Calvert 156 

Harvey,  James  Clarence.  .  17 

Hastings,  E.  H 80 

m 


Hawks,  Wells  T 107 

Holley,  Marietta 54 

Hope,  Anthony 101,  177 

Jakeway,  H.  W 126 

Jones,  Ernest 34 

Kingsley,  Charles 1 12 

Kipling,   Rudyard 166 

Laighton,    Albert 52 

Logan,  Walter  S 23,  95 

Macaulay,  Thomas  Babing- 

ton   45 

Masson,  Tom 35 

McDonald,  Francis  Charles  106 

Paine,  Albert  Bigelow 15 

Pickering,  Theodosia.  . . . .  14 

Robinson,  Ednah 129 

Rostand,  Edmond 118 

Selinger,  Emily 98 

Stern,  Edwin  M 85 

Stoddart,  Alfred 67 

Tompkins,  Juliet  W 94 

Van  Norman,  Louis  E. . . .  82 

Vandegrift,   Margaret 184 

West,  Elise 3,  37 

Wilcox,  Ella  Wheeler 36 

Winslow,  Helen  M 140 


W«rn§r*»  Headings  No.  22. 


WERNER'S 
READINGS  AND  RECITATIONS 


No.  22. 


UNCLE  ETHAN  RIPLEY'S  SPECULATION. 


HAMLIN  GARLAND. 


[A  cutting  from  the  original  story,  in  revised  edition,  of  "Main-Traveled  Roads," 
MacMillan  &  Co.,  publishers,  by  permission  of  the  author.] 

T  TNCLE  ETHAN  had  a  theory  that  a  man's  character 
**-'    could  be  told  by  the  way  he  sat  in  a  wagon  seat. 

"  A  mean  man  sets  right  plump  in  the  middle  o'  the  seat, 
as  much  as  to  say,  '  Walk,  gol  darn  yeh,  who  cares  ?  '  But  a 
man  that  sets  in  one  corner  o'  the  seat,  much  as  to  say,  '  Jump 
in — cheaper  t'  ride  'n  to  walk/  you  can  jest  tie  to." 

Uncle  Ripley  was  prejudiced  in  favor  of  the  stranger, 
therefore,  before  he  pulled  up  opposite  the  potato  patch 
where  the  old  man  was  bugging  his  vines.     *     *     * 

"  Good  afternoon,"  said  the  stranger,  pleasantly. 

"  Good  afternoon,  sir." 

"  Bugs  purty  plenty  ?  " 

"  Plenty  enough,  I  gol !  " 

"  Good  piece  of  oats  yonder." 

"  That's  barley." 

"  So  'tis.  Didn't  notice." 

Uncle  Ethan  was  wondering  what  the  man  was.  He  had 
some  pots  of  black  paint  in  the  wagon  and  two  or  three 
square  boxes.     *     *     * 

9 


io  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"  Is  that  your  new  barn  acrost  there  ?  "  asked  the  stranger. 

"  Yes,  sir,  it  is,"  answered  the  old  man,  proudly. 

After  years  of  planning  and  hard  work,  he  had  managed  to 
erect  a  little  wooden  barn,  in  which  he  took  a  childish  pride. 

"  Couldn't  think  o'  lettin'  me  paint  a  sign  on  that  barn?  " 
mused  the  stranger.     *     *     * 

'*  What  kind  of  a  sign  ?  *  *  *  See  the  darned 
things !  "  rapping  savagely  on  the  edge  of  the  pan  to  rattle 
the  bugs  back. 

"  Dodd's  Family  Bitters.  *  *  *  The  best  bitters  on 
the  market.  *  *  *  Warranted  to  cure  gout,  fevers, 
colds,  rheumatism,  summer  complaints,  pulmonary  difficul- 
ties, and  many  other  diseases,  and  tone  you  up  generally. 
Come  now,"  said  the  stranger,  speaking  in  a  warmly  gener- 
ous tone,  "  I'll  give  you  twenty-five  bottles  of  the  bitters  if 
you'll  let  me  paint  a  sign  on  that  barn."     *     *     * 

"  I  guess  I  hadn't  better,"  said  Uncle  Ripley,  thinking  of 
what  his  little  old  wife  would  say. 

"  It  simply  puts  a  family  bitter  in  your  home  that  may  save 
you  fifty  dollars  this  coming  fall.  *  *  *  If  you  don't 
want  to  use  the  whole  twenty-five  bottles  y'self,  why,  sell  it 
to  your  neighbors.  The  sign  won't  hurt  the  barn  a  bit,  and 
if  you  like  you  can  paint  it  out  a  year  from  date,  and  you  can 
get  twenty  dollars  easy  out  of  the  bitters."     *     *     * 

It  was  this  thought  which  consoled  Uncle  Ethan  as  the 
hideous  black  letters  appeared  under  the  agent's  brush,  and, 
in  a  short  time,  "  Dodd's  Family  Bitters,  Best  in  the 
Market "  glared  forth  from  the  sweet-smelling  pine  boards. 

"  Ethan  Ripley,  what  have  you  been  a-doin'  ?  "  demanded 
Mrs.  Ripley,  when  she  returned  home  that  afternoon.  "  Who 
painted  that  sign  on  there  ?  "     *     *     * 

"  A  man  come  along  an'  he  paid  me  twenty-five  dollars 
for  it."     *     *     * 

"Did'e?" 

She  was  visiblv  affected  by  the  news. 

"  Well,  it  amounts  to  that ;  he  give  me  twenty-five  bot- 
tles  " 

Mrs.  Ripley  sank  into  a  chair. 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22.  n 

"  Well  I  swan  to  Bungay,  Ethan  Ripley,  you  git  fooler  an' 
fooler  every  day  you  live,  I  do  believe.    Where  is  the  stuff  ?  " 

"  Down  cellar,  an'  you  needn't  take  on  no  airs,  ol'  woman. 
I've  known  you  to  buy  things  you  didn't  need  time  an'  again, 
an'  I  guess  you  wish  you  had  back  that  ten  dollars  you  paid 
for  that  illustrated  Bible."     *     *     * 

"  Go  get  it  this  minute." 

Uncle  Ethan  tugged  the  two  cases  *  *  *  into  the 
kitchen.  Mrs.  Ripley  opened  a  bottle  and  smelled  of  it  cau- 
tiously. 

"  Ugh !  Merciful  sakes,  what  stuff !  *  *  •  *  What  d* 
you  think  you  was  goin'  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

"  I  expected  to  take  it — if  I  was  sick.  Whaddy  ye 
s'pose  ? "     *     *     * 

"The  hull  cart-load  of  it?" 

"  No.  I'm  goin'  to  sell  part  of  it,  an'  git  me  an  overcoat — " 

"  Sell  it !  "  she  shouted.  "  Nobuddy'd  buy  that  sick'nin' 
stuff.  *  *  *  Take  it  out  this  minute  an'  smash  every 
bottle  on  the  stones."     *     *     * 

She  subsided  in  a  tumult  of  banging  pans. 

Uncle  Ethan  did  not  smash  the  medicine  as  commanded, 
because  he  had  determined  to  sell  it.  The  next  Sunday 
morning  he  put  on  his  best  suit  of  faded  diagonal  and  started 
out  with  four  bottles  of  the  bitters  in  a  water  pail.  But  he 
'  found  that  the  agent  had  been  to  several  of  his  neighbors, 
painting  signs  and  giving  the  medicine  for  payment,  so  that 
the  country  had  been  practically  canvassed.    He  disposed  of 

Pone  bottle  on  credit  and  came  home,  tired,  dusty,  and  hungry. 
The  evening  passed  in  grim  silence,  and  in  sleep  he  saw 
that  sign  wriggling  across  the  side  of  the  barn  like  boa-con- 
strictors hung  on  rails. 

As  he  stepped  into  the  yard  the  next  morning,  Mrs.  Ripley 

came  to  the  window,-  buttoning   her    dress   at   the   throat. 
*     *     *. 

"  Lovely,  ain't  it  ?  An'  I've  got  to  see  it  all  day  long.  I 
can't  look  out  the  winder  but  that  thing's  right  in  my  face." 
(It  seemed  to  make  her  savage.)  "  I  hope  you  feel  satisfied 
with  it." 

Ripley  walked  off  to  the  barn.     His  pride  in  its  clean 


t2  WERNER'S  READINGS 

sweet  newness  was  gone.  He  slyly  tried  the  paint  to  see  if  it 
could  be  scraped  off,  but  it  was  dried  in  thoroughly.  Whereas 
before  he  had  taken  delight  in  having  his  neighbors  turn  and 
look  at  the  building,  now  he  kept  out  of  sight  whenever  he 
saw  a  team  coming.     *     *     * 

Mrs.  Ripley  held  herself  in  check  for  several  days,  but  at 
last  she  burst  forth. 

"  Ethan  Ripley,  I  can't  stand  that  thing  any  longer,  an'  I 
ain't  goin'  to,  that's  all !  You  got  to  go  an'  paint  that  thing 
out  or  I  will.    I'm  just  crazy  with  it." 

"  But,  mother,  I  promised — " 

"  I  don't  care  what  you  promised ;  it's  got  to  be  painted 
out.  I've  got  the  nightmare  now  seein'  it.  I'm  goin'  to  send 
for  a  pail  of  red  paint,  an'  I'm  goin'  to  paint  that  out  if  it 
takes  the  last  breath  I've  got  to  do  it." 

"  I'll  'tend  to  it,  mother,  if  you  won't  hurry  me — " 

"  I  can't  stand  it  another  day.  It  makes  me  boil  every  time 
I  look  out  the  winder." 

Uncle  Ethan  hitched  up  his  team  and  drove  gloomily  off 
to  town,  where  he  tried  to  find  the  agent.  He  lived  in  some 
other  part  of  the  country,  however,  and  so  the  old  man  gave 
up  and  bought  a  pot  of  red  paint,  not  daring  to  go  back  to  his 
desperate  wife  without  it.     *     *     * 

After  supper  that  night  he  went  out  to  the  barn,  and  Mrs. 
Ripley  heard  him  sawing  and  hammering. 

"  What  y'  been  makin'  ?  "  she  inquired,  when  he  came  in. 

"  I  jest  thought  I'd  git  the  stagin'  ready  for  paintin',"  he 
said,  evasively.     *     *     * 

When  she  got  ready  for  bed  he  was  still  seated  in  his 
chair,  and  after  she  had  dozed  off  two  or  three  times  she  be- 
gan to  wonder  why  he  didn't  come. 

When  the  clock  struck  ten  she  began  to  get  impatient. 

"  Come,  are  y'  goin'  to  sit  there  all  night  ?  " 

There  was  no  answer.  She  rose  up  in  bed  and  looked 
about  the  room.  The  broad  moon  flooded  it  with  light  so 
that  she  could  see  that  he  was  not  in  his  chair.     *     *     *  • 

"  Ethan!  Ethan  Ripley,  where  are  you?  "     *     *     * 

There  was  no  answer.  She  rose  and  looked  distractedly 
about  among  the  furniture;  she  went  upstairs.    All  sorts 


AND  RECITATIONS.  No.  22.  13 

of  vague  horrors  sprang  unbidden  into  her  brain.  *  *  * 
She  hurried  out  into  the  fragrant  night.  The  ghastly  story  of 
a  man  who  had  hung  himself  because  his  wife  had  deserted 
him  came  into  her  mind  and  stayed  there  with  frightful  per- 
sistency. She  felt  a  wild  rush  of  loneliness.  She  had  a  sud- 
den realization  of  how  dear  that  gaunt  old  figure  was,  with 
its  grizzled  face  and  ready  smile. 

Her  breath  came  quicker  and  quicker,  and  she  was  on  the 
point  of  bursting  into  a  wild  cry,  when  she  heard  a  strange 
creaking  noise.  She  looked  toward  the  barn  and  saw  on  the 
shadowed  side  a  deeper  shadow  moving  to  and  fro.    *    *    * 

"  Land  of  Bungay,  if  he  ain't  paintin'  that  barn  like  a  per- 
fect old  idiot,  in  the  night." 

Uncle  Ethan,  working  desperately,  did  not  hear  her. 
*     *     * 

"  Ethan  Ripley,  you  come  right  straight  to  bed.  What 
d'  you  mean  by  actin'  so  ?  "     *     *     * 

He  made  two  or  three  slapping  passes  with  the  brush  and 
then  snapped : 

"  You  go  back  into  the  house  an'  let  me  be.  I  know  what 
I'm  a-doin'.  You've  pestered  me  about  that  sign  jest  about 
enough."     *     *     * 

Working  alone  out  there  had  made  him  savage.  She  knew 
by  the  tone  of  his  voice  he  was  not  to  be  pushed  any  further. 
She  slipped  on  her  shoes  and  her  shawl  and  came  back  where 
he  was  working  and  took  a  seat  on  a  saw-horse. 

"  I'm  a-goin'  to  set  right  here  till  you  come  in,  Ethan  Rip- 
ley," she  said,  in  a  firm  voice  but  gentler  than  usual. 

'"  Waal,  you'll  set  a  good  while."     *     *     * 

But  each  felt  a  furtive  tenderness  for  the  other.  He 
worked  on  in  silence.     *     *     * 

At  last  Mrs.  Ripley  spoke,  in  a  curious  tone : 

"'  Well,  I  don't  know  as  you  was  so  very  much  to  blame.  I 
didn't  want  that  Bible  myself — I  held  out  I  did,  but  I  didn't." 

Ethan  worked  on  until  the  full  meaning  of  the  unprece- 
dented surrender  penetrated  his  head,  and  then  he  threw 
down  the  brushes. 

"  Wall,  I  guess  I'll  let  'er  go  at  that.  I've  covered  up  the 
most  of  it  anyhow.    Guess  we'd  better  go  in." 


i4  WERNER'S  READINGS 

WHEN  GEORGE  WAS  KING. 


THEODOSIA    PICKERING. 


[Prom  Munsey's  Magazine,  by  permission  of  Frank  A.  Munsey.] 

A  N  ancient  hallway,  generous  and  square ; 
•**•    A  drowsy  fire  ghostly  shadows  throwing; 
An  old  clock  ticking  slowly  on  the  stair, 

As  one  who  tells  a  story  worth  the  knowing ; 
And  prone  upon  the  bearskin,  showing  clear 
In  the  red  light,  a  sleeping  cavalier. 

His  listless  fingers  closed  about  a  book, 

One  red-sleeved  arm  above  his  head  reposing, 

And  on  his  rugged  face  the  weary  look 

He  wore,  perchance,  before  his  eyes  were  closing; 

And  one  stands  laughing  eyed  upon  the  stair, 

Half  merry,  half  confused,  to  find  him  there. 

A  maiden,  rustling  in  her  stiff  brocade, 
A  girlish  bud  fast  blooming  into  woman, 

With  the  same  face  that  Gainsborough  oft  made, 
Coquettish,  most  divine,  and  wholly  human, 

Who  watches  the  dark  sleeper  as  he  lies, 

With  something  more  than  mischief  in  her  eyes ; 

And,  step  by  step,  comes  down  with  bated  breath, 
With  lips  half  curled  and  yet  not  wholly  smiling, 

And  bends  above  him  (as  the  old  tale  saith 
Dian  above  Endymion  bent  beguiling) 

And  notes  the  gray  streak  in  his  dusky  hair, 

And  wonders  timidly  what  brought  it  there. 

Then,  as  a  sudden  thought  comes  flashing  red, 
All  guiltily,  as  though  the  whole  world  knew  it, 

She  first  inclines  and  then  draws  back  her  head, 
Though  the  old  clock  ticks :  "Do  it,  do  it,  do  it !  " 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22. 


<S 


And  then,  with  hurried  "look,  yet  tender  air, 
She  drops  a  tiny  kiss  upon  his  hair, 

And,  shamefaced,  flies  as  some  Titania  might ; 

And  still  about  the  room  the  shades  are  creeping, 
And  the  old  clock  looks  down  with  steady  sight 

To  where  he  lies,  still  motionless  and  sleeping, 
And  ticks,  with  all  the  denseness  of  a  poet, 
"  A  secret,  and  I  know  it,  know  it,  know  it !  " 

Then  suddenly  wide  open  flash  his  eyes, 

And  on  the  shaggy  bearskin  quickly  turning, 

He  glances  round,  half  shamed,  half  laughing-wise, 
And,  seeing  nothing  but  the  great  logs  burning 

And  the  old  clock,  he  marks  with  stifled  yawn 

How  many  hours  since  he  slept  have  gone; 

And,  thinking,  checks  the  smile  upon  his  face; 

For  in  his  dreams  he  vaguely  can  remember 
He  thought  his  mother  from  her  heavenly  place 

Stooped  down  and  kissed  him,  lovingly  and  tender, 
And  then,  self-mocking,  brushes  off  a  tear, 
And  strides  away,  this  red-coat  cavalier. 


THE  HOUSE  OP  TOO  MUCH  TROUBLE. 


ALBERT   BIGELOW   PAINE. 


[From  Munse^s  Magazine,  by  permission  of  Frank  A.  Mtmsey.] 

T  N  the  House  of  Too  Much  Trouble 
*    Lived  a  lonely  little  boy ; 
He  was  eager  for  a  playmate, 

He  was  hungry  for  a  toy. 
But  'twas  always  too  much  bother, 

Too  much  dirt,  and  too  much  noise, 
For  the  House  of  Too  Much  Trouble 

Wasn't  meant  for  little  boys. 


1 6  WERNER'S  READINGS 

And  sometimes  the  little  fellow 

Left  a  book  upon  the  floor, 
Or  forgot  and  laughed  too  loudly, 

Or  he  failed  to  close  the  door. 
In  a  House  of  Too  Much  Trouble 

Things  must  be  precise  and  trim ; 
In  a  House  of  Too  Much  Trouble 

There  was  little  room  for  him. 

He  must  never  scatter  playthings, 

He  must  never  romp  and  play ; 
Ev'ry  room  must  be  in  order 

And  kept  quiet  all  the  day. 
He  had  never  had  companions, 

He  had  never  owned  a  pet. 
In  the  House  of  Too  Much  Trouble 

It  is  trim  and  quiet  yet. 

Ev'ry  room  is  set  in  order, 

Every  book  is  in  its  place, 
And  the  lonely  little  fellow 

Wears  a  smile  upon  his  face. 
In  the  House  of  Too  Much  Trouble 

He  is  silent  and  at  rest — 
In  the  House  of  Too  Much  Trouble, 

With  a  lily  on  his  breast. 


AFTER  GRACE. 


A  CURATE  once  courted  a  nice  little  miss, — 
**■    Grace  by  name,  but  by  nature  a  sinner. 
He  never  dared  ask  for  "  just  one  little  kiss," 

P'r'aps  he  thought  by  his  preaching  to  win  her. 
His  most  passionate  speech,  when  they  sat  down  together, 
Was  "  A  very  fine  day,"  or  "  Most  singular  weather ! " 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22.  17 

"Ah,  me!    He  is  vowed  unto  silence,"  she  cried; 

"  'Tis  my  mission  to  make  him  abjure  it, 
Pa  must  ask  him  to  dinner ;  I'll  sit  by  his  side, 

And  I  really  should  think  I  could  cure  it !  " 

So  he  came,  and  they  all  tried  their  hardest  to  make 

Him  feel  really  at  home.    To  insure  it, 
He  was  seated  by'  Grace,  and,  his  silence  to  break, 

Said  her  father  (who  couldn't  endure  it) — 
Forgetting  the  "  blessing  " — "  Now  what  will  you  take?  " 
"  I  should  like  to  say — Grace — "  said  the  curate. 


THE  DAUGHTER  OP  THE  DESERT. 


JAMES  CLARENCE  HARVEY. 


LBy  permission  of  the  author.] 

A  N  opulent  lord  of  Ispahan 
•**■    In  luxury  lolled  on  a  silk  divan, 
Dreaming  the  idle  hours  away 
In  a  cloud  of  smoke  from  his  narghile. 
Weary  with  nothing  to  do  in  life, 
He  thought,  as  he  watched  the  smoky  whirls, 
'Twill  be  diversion  to  choose  a  wife 
From  my  peerless  bevy  of  dancing-girls." 
There  are  beauties  fair  from  every  land : 
Lustrous  eyes  from  Samarcand; 
Dusky  forms  from  the  Upper  Nile ; 
Teeth  that  glisten  when  red  lips  smile ; 
Gipsy  faces  of  olive  hue, 
Stolen  from  some  wild  wandering  clan ; 
Fair  complexions  and  eyes  of  blue, 
From  the  sunny  isles  of  Cardachan ; 
Regal  beauties  of  queenly  grace 
And  sinuous  sirens  of  unknown  race. 
Some  one  among  them  will  surely  bless 
Hours  that  grow  heavy  with  idleness, 


18  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Then  the  slave  that  waited  his  lightest  need 
Fell  on  his  knee,  by  the  silk  divan, 
And  the  swarthy,  listening  ear  gave  heed 
To  the  will  of  the  lord  of  Ispahan. 

"  Send  hither  my  dancing-girls,"  he  said, 

"  And  set  me  a  feast  to  please  the  eye 
And  tempt  the  palate ;  for  this  shall  be 
A  wedding  breakfast  before  us  spread 
If  the  charm  of  beauty  can  satisfy 
And  one  of  their  number  pleaseth  me. 
I  will  wed  no  maiden  of  high  degree, 
With  the  tips  of  her  fingers  henna-stained 
And  the  dew  of  youth  from  her  life-blood  drained, 
But  a  child  of  nature,  wild  and  free." 
Then  the  slave  bent  low  and  said :  "  O  sire, 
A  woman  lingers  beside  the  gate, 
Her  eyes  are  aglow  like  coals  of  fire 
And  she  mourns  as  one  disconsolate ; 
And  when  we  bid  her  to  cease  and  go, 
Each  eye  grows  bright,  like  an  evening  star, 
And  she  sayeth :  '  The  master  will  hear  my  woe, 
For  I  come  from  the  deserts  of  Khandakar.'  " 

"  Bid  her  to  enter,"  the  master  said, 

And  the  frown  from  his  forehead  swiftly  fled. 

The  hasty  word  on  his  lip  was  stayed, 

As  he  thought  of  his  youth,  in  the  land  afar, 

And  the  peerless  eyes  of  a  Bedouin  maid, 

In  the  desert  places  of  Khandakar. 

The  woman  entered  and  swift  unwound 

The  veil  that  mantled  her  face  around, 

And  in  matchless  beauty  she  stood  arrayed, 

In  the  scant  attire  of  a  Bedouin  maid. 

The.  indolent  lord  of  Ispahan 

Started  back  on  the  silk  divan, 

For  in  form  and  feature,,  in  very  truth, 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22.  19 

It  seemed  the  love  of  his  early  youth. 
The  almond  eyes  and  the  midnight  hair, 
The  rosebud  mouth  and  the  rounded  chin, — 
Time  had  not  touched  them ;  they  still  were  fair. 
And  the  passion  of  yore  grew  strong  within. 
Then  she  made  him  the  secret  Bedouin  sign, 
Which  only  dishonor  can  fail  to  heed, — 
The  solemn  pact  of  the  races  nine 
To  help  each  other  in  time  of  need. 
But  her  eyes  beheld  no  answering  sign, 
Though  a  crimson  tide  to  his  forehead  ran, 
And  the  trembling  maiden  could  not  divine 
The  will  of  the  lord  of  Ispahan. 
With  the  sound  of  a  rippling  mountain  brook, 
The  voice  of  the  woman  her  lips  forsook ; 
And  thus  her  tale  of  despair  began 
In  the  lordly  palace  at  Ispahan : 

'  On  a  stallion  black  as  the  midnight  skies, 
From  the  desert  I  come,  where  my  lover  lies 
At  death's  dark  verge,  and  the  hostile  clan 
That  struck  him  down  are  in  Ispahan 
With  slaves  to  sell  in  the  open  street, 
And  only  because  my  steed  was  fleet 
Am  I  now  free ;  but  here  I  bide, 
For  this  morning  the  hard-rid  stallion  died. 
Out  of  your  opulence,  one  swift  steed 
Only  a  drop  from  the  sea  will  be, 
A  grain  of  sand  on  the  shore,  in  my  need ; 
But  the  wealth  of  the  whole  wide  world  to  me. 
My  soul  to  the  soul  of  my  loved  one  cries, 
At  dawn  or  in  darkness,  whate'er  betide, 
And  the  pain  of  longing  all  peace  denies 
To  the  heart  that  strains  to  my  lover's  side." 

'  You  shall  mourn  no  more,  but  sit  with  me 
And  rejoice  in  a  scene  of  revelry ; 
For  the  pleasures  of  life  are  the  rights  of  man," 
Said  the  indolent  lord  of  Ispahan. 


2o  WERNER'S  READINGS. 

The  curtains  parted  and  noiseless  feet 

Of  dusky  slaves  stole  over  the  floor, 

Their  strong  arms  laden  with  burden  sweet, 

Of  fruits  and  flowers,  a  goodly  store : 

Luscious  peaches  and  apricots, 

Plucked  from  the  sunniest  garden  spots; 

Syrian  apples  and  cordials  rare ; 

Succulent  grapes  that  filled  the  air 

With  heavy  sweetness,  while  rivers  ran, 

From  beakers  of  wine  from  Astrakhan; 

Cooling  salvers  of  colored  ice; 

Almonds  powdered  with  fragrant  spice; 

Smoking  viands  on  plates  of  gold, 

And  carven  vessels  of  price  untold, 

Kindling  the  appetite  afresh 

For  dainty  morsels  of  fowl  and  flesh. 

The  musical  notes  of  the  mellow  flute 

From  a  source  remote  rose  higher  and  higher, 

With  the  quivering  sounds  from  a  hidden  lute, 

The  plaintive  sweep  of  the  tender  lyre. 

Then  a  whirlwind  of  color  filled  the  air, — 

A  misty  vapor  of  filmy  lace 

With  gleams  of  silk  and  of  round  arms  bare, 

In  a  mazy  whirl  of  infinite  grace ; 

And  the  lustrous  glow  of  tresses  blent 

Wfth  the  shimmer  of  pearls  from  the  Orient* 

The  half-sobbed,  breathless,  sweet  refrain, 

A  swelling  burst  of  sensuous  sound, 

Sank  lower,  to  swell  and  sink  again, 

Then  died  in  silence  most  profound. 

The  panting  beauties,  with  cheeks  aglow, 

Scattered  about  on  the  rug-strewn  floor 

Like  bright-hued  leaves  when  the  chill  winds  blow, 

Or  tinted  sea-shells  along  the  shore. 

But  the  lord  of  the  palace  turned  and  cried : 

<0  Heavy  and  languid  these  maidens  are ;  " 
And  he  said,  to  the  Bedouin  at  his  side : 

"  Teach  them  the  dances  of  Khandakar." 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22. 

Her  dark  eyes  lit  with  the  flash  of  fire, 
And  she  said :  "  You  will  pity  my  need  most  dire? 
You  will  give  me  a  steed  to  fly  afar, 
To  my  love  in  the  deserts  of  Khandakar  ?  " 
"  Half  that  I  own  shall  be  yours,"  he  said, 
"  If  the  love  of  my  youth  that  was  under  ban 
Comes  back  to  me  like  a  soul  from  the  dead, 
Bringing  joy  to  the  palace  of  Ispahan." 

She  sprang  to  the  floor  with  an  agile  bound. 
The  music  broke  in  a  swirl  of  sound. 
Her  hair  from  its  fillet  became  unbound, 
And  the  dancing-girls  that  stood  apart 
Gazed  rapt  and  speechless,  with  hand  to  heart, 
At  the  wild,  untrammeled  curves  of  grace 
Of  the  dancing-girl  from  the  desert  race. 
Not  one  of  them  half  so  fair  to  see; 
Not  one  as  lithe  in  the  sinuous  twist 
Of  twirling  body  and  bending  knee ; 
Of  supple  ankle  and  curving  wrist. 
The  wilder  the  music,  the  wilder  she, — 
It  seemed  like  the  song  of  a  bird  set  free 
To  thrill  in  the  heart  of  a  cloud  of  mist 
And  live  on  its  own  mad  ecstasy. 
Spellbound  and  mute  on  the  silk  divan, 
Sat  the  lord  of  the  palace  at  Ispahan. 

But  the  thoughts  of  the  master  were  drifting  far, 

To  his  youth  in  the  deserts  of  Khandakar ; 

To  the  time  when  another  had  danced  as  well, 

And  listened  with  tenderness  in  her  eyes, 

To  the  burning  words  his  lips  might  tell, 

With  kisses  freighting  her  soft  replies. 

And  he  had  thought  that  her  smile  would  bless 

His  roving  life,  in  the  land  afar, 

And  cheer  him  in  hours  of  loneliness, 

In  the  tents  of  the  deserts  of  Khandakar ; 

But  the  tribe  had  chosen  the  maid  to  wed 


21 


22  WERNER'S  READINGS, 

With  the  powerful  chief  of  a  hostile  clan, 
And  the  flattered  woman  had  turned  and  fled 
From  the  pleading  voice  of  a  stricken  man; 
Then  out  of  the  desert  the  lover  sped, 
To  become  a  great  lord  of  Ispahan, 
And  now  this  child,  with  the  subtle  grace 
Of  the  mother  that  bore  her,  had  come  to  him, 
With  the  desert's  breath  upon  her  face, 
Rousing  within  him  a  purpose  grim. 
"  By  the  beard  of  the  Prophet !  but  you  shall  be 
The  light  and  the  joy  of  my  life  to  me! 
As  your  mother  was,  you  are  to-day. 
Your  lover,  perchance,  hath  lived  his  span ; 
You  shall  dry  your  maidenly  tears  and  stay, 
As  the  wife  of  the  lord  of  Ispahan." 

That  night  when  the  dusky  shadows  crept 

Across  the  tiles  of  the  banquet  room, 

They  found  the  form  of  a  man  who  slept 

On  a  silk  divan,  in  the  gathering  gloom. 

The  window  screens  were  wide  to  the  air, 

And  the  hedge,  where  the  fragrant  roses  grew, 

Was  cleft  and  trodden  to  earth,  just  where 

A  frightened  fugitive  might  pass  through  ; 

And  the  groom  of  the  stables,  heavy  with  wine, 

Wakened  not  at  the  prancing  tread 

Of  the  milk-white  steed,  and  made  no  sign 

As  the  Bedouin  maid  from  the  palace  fled. 

And  the  indolent  lord  of  Ispahan 

Seemed  resting  still  on  the  silk  divan. 

But  his  heart  was  beating  with  love  no  more ; 

In  his  eyes  no  light  Of  passion  gleamed ; 

His  listless  fingers  touched  the  floor, 

Where  the  crimson  tide  of  his  life-blood  streamed, 

And  he  slept  the  last,  long,  dreamless  sleep ; 

For  the  end  had  come  to  life's  brief  span, 

And  his  jeweled  dagger  was  handle  deep 

In  the  heart  of  the  lord  of  Ispahan. 


rAND  RECITATIONS,  No.  22.  33 

THE  DOLLAR.  , 


WALTER   S.   LOGAN. 

MAN  is  lazy  and  selfish  His  indolence  and  his  selfish- 
ness are  the  result  of  evolution  as  much  as  any  other 
quality  he  has  acquired.  They  are  his  salvation.  Without 
them,  he  would  burn  himself  out  before  he  had  fairly  begun 
to  live.  We  can  not  hope  that  he  will  ever  grow  out  of  his 
indolence  or  his  egoism.    He  would  die  in  the  process. 

Being,  then,  forever  destined  to  be  lazy  and  selfish,  he 
must  have  some  incentive  or  he  will  not  work  and  production 
will  come  to  an  end.  The  dollar  has  been  that  incentive. 
The  dollar  represents  food,  clothing,  and  shelter, — all  the 
physical,  and  many  of  the  social  and  the  artistic,  necessities 
of  life.  It  has  been  around  the  dollar  that  civilization  has 
developed.  The  hope  of  the  dollar  has  inspired  men  of 
common  clay  to  drudge  and  men  of  genius  to  become  heroes 
of  the  ages.  The  peasant  with  his  shovel  has  dug  ditches 
for  it,  the  sailor  has  met  the  relentless  storms  of  the  sea  for 
it,  the  soldier  has  fought  for  it,  the  poet  has  sung  for  it,  for 
it  the  orator  has  poured  forth  his  words  of  resistless  elo- 
quence, the  adventurous  discoverer  has  sought  for  it  in 
every  corner  of  the  earth  and  the  sea,  for  it  the  inventor  has 
harnessed  the  powers  of  nature  to  man's  car,  for  it  Shake- 
speares  and  Macaulays  have  written  books,  and  for  it  states- 
men have  made  history. 

But  there  is  another  side  to  the  story.  The  dollar  incites 
to  production  when  men  can  get  the  dollar  easiest  by  produ- 
cing it ;  it  incites  also  to  crime  when  it  is  easier  to  take  by 
force  or  by  fraud  another  man's  dollar  than  to  earn  one's 
own.  It  has  built  railroads  that  were  needed  and  thus  car- 
ried prosperity  to  the  wilderness,  but  it  has  also  paralleled 
them  when  the  parallels  were  not  needed  and  thus  brought 
ruin  instead  of  prosperity.  It  has  inspired  men  to  make 
fortunes  by  honest  industry  and  it  has  inspired  other  men  to 
wreck  those  fortunes  that  the  wreckers  might  be  enriched. 


24  WERNER'S  READINGS 

For  it  the  wilderness  has  been  conquered  and  made  to  pro- 
duce the  things  man  needs,  and  for  it,  also,  unholy  wars 
have  been  waged  and  continents  desolated.  It  has  been 
the  incentive  alike  of  the  mariner  of  commerce,  under  whose 
flag  were  carried  untold  blessings,  and  of  the  pirate  who 
sailed  the  main  under  the  black  flag  and  was  the  world's 
greatest  enemy.  It  inspired  alike  Columbus  and  Pizarro, 
William  Penn  and  Hernando  Cortez.  It  was  the  cause  of 
the  settlement  of  Massachusetts  and  of  the  atrocities  of 
Weyler.  Men  have  wrought  for  it  and  men  have  fought  for 
it.  Men  have  traded  for  it  and  stolen  for  it.  Some  men 
get  it  by  doing  good  to  their  neighbors,  others  find  it  in  the 
ruin  of  all  around  them.  Some  get  it  by  fair  competition, 
others  by  fraud  and  deception  and  treachery.  On  the  Stock 
Exchange,  the  widow  and  the  orphan  find  an  opportunity 
safely  to  invest  their  accumulations;  but  the  Stock  Ex- 
change is  also  the  theatre  of  a  system  of  gambling  that  gives 
the  blush  to  Monte  Carlo.  Wall  Street  has  two  ends.  At 
one  is  the  noble  spire  of  Trinity  Church,  which  points  high 
toward  the  sky.  The  other  is  the  first  station  on  the  road  to 
Greenwood. 

The  love  of  money,  if  it  is  the  cause  of  much  that  is 
good,  is  also  the  root  of  much,  if  not  all,  evil.  It  is  respon- 
sible alike  for  the  strength  and  the  weakness,  the  virtue  and 
the  vice,  of  our  civilization.     It  makes  and  it  mars  men. 


A  SOCIAL  GLASS. 


Y\7 HAT  makes  me  refuse  a  social  glass  ? 
*  "      Well,  I'll  tell  you  the  reason  why : 
Because  a  bonnie  blue-eyed  lass 

Is  ever  standing  by, 
And  I  hear  her  voice  above  the  noise 

Of  the  jest  and  the  merry  glee, 
As  with  baby  grace  she  kisses  my  face 

And  says :  "  Papa,  be  true  to  me." 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22. 

Then  what  can  I  do  to  my  lass  to  be  true, 

Better  than  let  it  pass  by  ? 
I  know  you  think  my  refusal  to  drink 

A  breach  of  your  courtesy, 
But  I  hear  her  repeat  in  accents  sweet, 

And  her  dear  little  form  I  see, 
As  with  loving-  embrace  she  kisses  my  face 

And  says :  "  Papa,  be  true  to  me." 

Let  me  offer  a  toast  to  the  one  I  love  most, 

Whose  dear  little  will  I  obey, 
Whose  influence  sweet  is  guiding  my  feet 

Over  life's  dark  toilsome  way. 
May  the  sun  ever  shine  on  this  lassie  of  mine, 

From  sorrow  may  she  be  free, 
For  with  baby  grace  she  has  kissed  my  face 

And  said :  "  Papa,  be  true  to  me." 


THE  FESTIVAL  OF  MARS. 


ELBRIDGE   S.    BROOKS. 


[Arranged  from  "  Marcus  of  Rome,"  by  permission  of  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  pub- 
lishers.] 

•"THERE  is  a  stir  of  expectation,  a  burst  of  trumpets  from 
*  the  Capitol,  and  all  along  the  Sacred  Street  and  through 
the  crowded  Forum  goes  up  the  shout  of  the  watchers, 
"  Here  they  come!  "  With  the  flutes  playing  merrily;  with 
swaying  standards  and  sacred  statues  gleaming  in  silver  and 
gold;  with  proud  young  cadets  on  horse  and  on  foot;  with 
priests  in  their  robes  and  guards  with  crested  helms ;  with 
strange  and  marvelous  beasts  led  by  burly  keepers;  with  a 
long  string  of  skilled  performers,  restless  horses,  and  gleam- 
ing chariots ;  through  the  Forum  and  down  the  Sacred  Street 
winds  the  long  procession,  led  by  the  boy-magistrate,  Marcus 
of  Rome,  the  favorite  of  the  Emperor.    A  golden  chaplet 


26  WERNER'S  READINGS 

wrought  in  crusted  leaves  circles  his  head;  a  purple  toga 
drapes  his  trim  young  figure ;  while  the  flutes  and  the  trump- 
ets play  their  loudest  before  him,  and  the  stout  guards 
march  at  the  heels  of  his  bright-bay  pony.  So  into  the  great 
circus  passes  the  long  procession,  and,  as  it  files  into  the 
arena,  two  hundred  thousand  people  rise  to  their  feet  and 
welcome  it  with  hearty  hand-clapping. 

The  trumpets  sound  the  prelude,  the  young  magistrate 
flings  the  mappa,  or  white  flag  into  the  course  as  the  signal 
for  the  start,  and,  as  a  ringing  shout  goes  up,  four  glittering 
chariots,  rich  in  their  decorations  of  gold  and  polished  ivory 
and  each  drawn  by  four  plunging  horses,  burst  from  their 
arched  stalls  and  dash  around  the  track.  Green,  blue,  red, 
white — the  colors  of  the  drivers — stream  from  their  tunics. 
Around  and  around  they  go.  Now  one  and  now  another  is 
ahead.  The  people  strain  and  cheer,  and  many  a  wager  is 
laid  as  to  the  victor.  Another  shout !  The  red  chariot,  turn- 
ing too  sharply,  grates  against  the  meta,  or  short  pillar  that 
stands  at  the  upper  end  of  the  track,  guarding  the  low  central 
wall.  The  horses  rear  and  plunge,  the  driver  struggles  man- 
fully to  control  them,  but  all  in  vain ;  over  goes  the  chariot, 
while  the  now  maddened  horses  dash  wildly  on  until  checked 
by  mounted  attendants  and  led  off  to  their  stalls. 

"  Blue !  blue !  Green !  green !  "  rise  the  varying  shouts, 
as  the  contending  chariots  still  struggle  for  the  lead.  White 
is  far  behind.  Now  comes  the  seventh  or  final  round.  Blue 
leads  ?  No,  green  is  ahead !  Neck  and  neck  down  the  home- 
stretch they  go  magnificently,  and  then  the  cheer  of  victory 
is  heard,  as,  with  a  final  dash,  the  green  rider  strikes  the 
white  cord  first  and  the  race  is  won. 

Now,  in  the  interval  between  the  races,  come  the  athletic 
sports:  Foot-racing  and  wrestling,  rope-dancing  and  high 
leaping,  quoit-throwing,  and  javelin  matches.  One  man 
runs  a  race  with  a  fleet  Cappadocian  horse;  another  expert 
rider  drives  two  bare-backed  horses  twice  around  the  track, 
leaping  from  back  to  back  as  the  horses  dash  around. 

Among  the  throng  of  *'  artists  "  there  came  a  bright  little 
fellow  of  ten  or  eleven  years, — a  rope-dancer  and  a  favorite 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22.  27 

with  the  crowd.  Light  and  agile,  he  trips  along'  the  slender 
rope  that  stretches  high  above  the  arena.  Right  before  the 
magistrate's  box  the  boy  poises  in  mid-air,  and  even  the 
^thoughtful  young  director  of  the  games  looks  up  at  the 
graceful  motions  of  the  boy.  Hark !  a  warning  shout  goes 
up;  now,  another!  The  poor  little  rope-dancer,  anxious  to 
find  favor  in  the  eyes  of  the  young  noble,  overexerts  him- 
self, loses  his  balance  on  the  dizzy  rope  and,  toppling  over, 
falls  with  a  cruel  thud  to  the  ground  and  lies  there  before 
the  great  state  box,  with  a  broken  neck — dead.  Marcus 
hears  the  shout,  he  sees  the  falling  boy.  Vaulting  from  his 
canopied  box,  he  leaps  down  into  thfe  arena,  and,  so  tender  is 
he  of  others,  Stoic  though  he  be,  that  he  has  the  poor  rope- 
dancer's  head  in  his  lap  even  before  the  attendants  can  reach 
him.  But  no  life  remains  in  that  bruised  little  body  and,  as 
Marcus  tenderly  resigns  the  dead  gymnast  to  the  less  sympa- 
thetic slaves,  he  commands  that  ever  after  a  bed  shall  be  laid 
beneath  the  ropes  as  a  protection  against  such  fatal  falls. 
This  became  the  rule,  and,  when  next" you  see  the  safety-net 
spread  beneath  the  rope-walkers,  the  trapeze  performers,  and 
those  who  perform  similar  "  terrific  "  feats,  remember  that 
its  use  dates  back  to  the  humane  order  of  Marcus,  the  boy- 
magistrate,  seventeen  centuries  ago. 

But  in  those  old  days  the  people  had  to  be  amused,  what- 
ever happened.  Human  life  was  held  too  cheaply  for  a 
whole  festival  to  be  stopped  because  a  little  boy  was  killed, 
and  so  the  sports  went  on.  Athletes  and  gymnasts  did  their 
best  to  excel;  amid  wild  excitement  the  chariots  whirled 
around  and  around  the  course;  and  then  the  arena  was 
cleared  for  the  final  act — the  wild  beast  hunt. 

The  wary  keepers  raise  the  stout  gratings  before  the  dens 
and  cages,  and  the  wild  animals,  freed  from  their  prisons, 
rush  into  the  great  open  space,  blink  stupidly  in  the  glaring 
light,  and  then  with  roar  and  growl  echo  the  shouts  of  the 
spectators.  Here  are  great  lions  from  Numidia,  and  tigers 
from  far  Arabia,  wolves  from  the  Apennines  and  bears  from 
Libya;  not  caged  and  half-tamed  as  we  see  them  now,  but 
wild  and  fierce,  loose  in  the  arena.    Now  the  hunters  swarm 


28  WERNER'S  READINGS 

in,  on  horse  and  on  foot, — trained  and  supple  Thracian  glad 
iators,  skilled  Gaetulian  hunters,  with  archers,  and  spearmen, 
and  net-throwers.  All  around  the  great  arena  rages  the  cruel 
fight.  Here,  a  lion  stands  at  bay;  there,  a  tigress  crouches 
for  the  spring;  a  snarling  wolf  snaps  at  a  keen-eyed  Thra- 
cian; or  a  bear  with  ungainly  trot  shambles  away  from  the 
spear  of  his  persecutor.  Eager  and  watchful,  the  huntert 
shoot  and  thrust,  while  the  vast  audience,  more  eager,  more 
relentless,  more  brutal,  than  beast  or  hunter,  applaud  and 
shout  and  cheer.  But  the  young  magistrate,  who  had, 
through  all  his  life,  a  marked  distaste  for  such  cruel  sport, 
turns  from  the  arena  and,  again  taking  out  his  tablets,  busies 
himself  with  his  writing,  unmoved  by  the  contest  and  the 
carnage  before  him. 

The  last  hunted  beast  lies  dead  in  the  arena ;  the  last  valor- 
ous hunter  has  been  honored  with  his  palma  or  reward,  as 
victor;  the  slaves  stand  ready  with  hook  and  ropes  to  drag 
off  the  slaughtered  animals ;  the  great  crowd  pours  out  of  the 
vast  three-storied  buildings;  the  shops  in  the  porticos  are 
noisy  with  the  talk  of  buyers  and  sellers;  the  boy-magistrate 
and  his  escort  pass  through  the  waiting  throng;  and  the 
Festival  Games  are  over. 


THE  COON'S  LULLABY. 


[Croon  the  last  line  of  each  stanza,  also  "Po'  lamb!  "  and  "Yes,  you!"] 


l_I  EAH,  yo'  Rastus,  shet  yo'  little  sleepy  haid. 

*  *     Mammy  gwine  tu'h  rock  hu'h    lamb  tu'h  res' — (Po' 

lamb!    Po?  lamb!) 
Ebry  little  possum  chile  am  dreamin'  in  its  bed, 

Yo's  my  precious  honey — yes,  yo'  am ! 
Swing,  oh !  sing,  ho !  Lucy,  whar  yo'  bin  so  late  ? 

Lemme  catch  a  niggah  courtin'  yo' — (Yes,  you!) 
Hurry  up,  yo'  rascals,  'fo'  dere's  co'n  bread  on  de  plate — 

Fo'  mammy  loves  hu'h  honeys,  yes,  she  do ! 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  as. 


39 


„aws  now,  Rastus,  I  done  gwine  tu'h  swat  yo'  hard, 
Slap  yo'  tu'h  a  peak  an'  break  it  off — (TV  Iambi    Po' 
lamb!) 
Monst'ous  drefful  bogie  man  am  waitin'  in  de  yard — 

Mammy's  only  jokin',  yes,  she  am! 
Swing,  oh !  sing,  oh !  Petah,  yes,  I  see  yo',  git ! 

Washin'ton,  I'll  cu'l  yo'  wool  fo'  yo' — {Yes,  yon!) 
Neber  in  de  whole  roun  wo'ld  I  seen  sich  chilluns  yit— 
But  mammy  loves  hu'h  honeys,  yes,  she  do ! 


A  PLATONIC  FRIENDSHIP, 


JAMES   M.    BARRIE. 


CHE  was  a  very  pretty  girl — although  that  counted  for 
^  little  with  either  of  us — and  her  frock  was  yellow  and 
brown,  with  pins  here  and  there.  Some  of  these  pins  were 
nearly  a  foot  long,  and  when  they  were  not  in  use  she  placed 
them  in  her  hair,  through  which  she  stabbed  them  far  down 
into  her  brain.  This  makes  me  shudder,  but  so  is  she  con- 
structed that  it  doesn't  seem  to  hurt,  and  in  this  human  pin- 
cushion they  remain  until  she  is  ready  to  put  on  her  jacket 
again.  She  comes  in  here  sometimes  looking  always  as  if  she 
had  been  born  afresh  that  morning,  to  sit  in  the  big  chair  and 
discuss  what  sort  of  girl  she  is — and  other  subjects  of  mo- 
ment. 

When  she  clasps  her  hands  over  her  knees  and  says  "Oh !" 
I  know  she  has  remembered  something  that  must  come  out 
or  endanger  her  health,  and  whether  it  be:  "  I  don't  believe 
in  anything  or  anybody!  "  or  "  Isn't  life  hard  for  girls?  "  or 
"  I  buy  chocolate  drops  by  the  half-pound,"  I  am  expected  to 
regard  it,  for  the  time  being  at  least,  as  one  of  the  most  im- 
portant events  of  the  day. 

The  reason  we  get  on  so  well  together  is  because  I  always 
treat  her  exactly  as  if  she  were  a  man,    Ours  is  a  platonic 


3o  WERNER'S  READINGS 

friendship,  or  at  least  it  was,  for  she  went  off  half  an  hour 
ago  with  her  head  in  the  air.  The  way  it  all  came  about  was 
like  this :  She  had  come  in  here  one  morning  and  after  only 
one  glance  in  the  mirror  had  seated  herself  in  the  big  chair, 
and  then  this  jumped  out : 

"  And  I  thought  you  so  trustworthy !  " 

She  always  begins  in  the  middle. 

"  Why,  what  have  I  done?  "  I  asked,  though  I  knew. 

"  Yesterday  when  you  put  me  in  that  cab — oh !  you  didn't 
do  it,  but  you  tried  to." 

"  Do  what?  "  • 

She  screwed  her  mouth,  whereupon  I  smoked  hard  lest  I 
might  do  it  again. 

"  Men  are  all  alike — " 

"  And  you  actually  think,  Miss  Cummings,  that  if  I  did 
contemplate  such  a  thing  for  a  moment,  that  I  did  it  from 
the  wretched,  ordinary  motives  that  would  move  a  common- 
place young  man?  Miss  Cummings,  do  you  know  me  no 
better  than  that?" 

"  I  don't  see  what  you  mean." 

There  ensued  a  pause,  for  I  was  not  quite  clear  what  I 
meant  myself. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

Then  I  laid  my  pipe  on  the  mantlepiece  and  explained  to 
her,  though  I  forget  now  how  I  did  it,  that  I  had  nothing  in 
common  with  other  young  men,  if  I  seemed  to  act  as  they 
did  my  motives  were  entirely  different,  and  therefore  I 
should  be  judged  from  an  entirely  different  standpoint;  then 
I  said : 

"  But,  Miss  Cummings,  as  you  still  seem  to  think  I  did  it 
from  wretched,  ordinary  motives — namely,  because  I  wanted 
to — it  is  best  for  you  and  me  to  part.  I  have  explained  my- 
self, because  it  is  painful  for  me  to  be  misunderstood.  Good- 
bye, Miss  Cummings." 

Here,  in  spite  of  an  apparent  effort  to  control  it,  my  voice 
broke,  whereupon  she  placed  her  hand  in  mine  and  with  tears 
in  her  eyes  begged  me  to  forgive  her,  which  I  did. 

This  it  was,  you  see,  which  proved  to  her  that  I  had  noth- 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22.  31 

ing  in  common  with  other  young  men,  and  which  led  to  the 
drawing  up  of  our  platonic  friendship. 

She  was  to  come  in  here  frequently  and  sit  in  the  big 
chair  and  discuss  various  subjects  for  our  mutual  improve- 
ment. 

"  I  shall  have  to  call  you  '  Mary,'  "  I  said. 

"'Mary!'    Well,  I  don't  see  that." 

"  Oh,  yes.  You  know  among  friends  it's  customary, — 
Mary  dear." 

"Dear?"' 

"  That's  what  I  said." 

She  had  laid  her  jacket  upon  the  table,  her  gloves  on  the 
couch,  her  chocolate  drops  on  the  mantel,  and  I  was  holding 
her  scarf — the  room  was  full  of  her. 

"  Mary,  I  walked  down  Regent  Street  behind  you  yester- 
day, and  your  back  told  me  that  you  were  vain." 

"  Well,  I'm  not  vain  of  personal  appearance." 

"  Well,  Mary,  how  could  you  be?  " 

She  looked  at  me  sharply,  but  my  face  was  quite  expres- 
sionless. 

"  Whatever  my  faults  are,  and  I  admit  that  they  are  many, 
vanity  is  not  one  of  them." 

"  Well,  Mary,  that's  what  you  said  when  I  told  you  that 
you  had  a  bad  temper,  and  when — " 

"  That  was  last  week,  stupid.  However,  if  you  think  me 
ugly—" 

"  Why,  Mary,  if  you  think  nothing  of  your  personal  ap- 
pearance, why  blame  me  when  I  agree  with  you  ?  " 

She  rose  haughtily. 

"  Sit  down." 

"  I  won't.    Give  me  my  scarf." 

"  Why,  Mary,  if  you  would  really  like  to  know  what  I 
think  of  your  personal  appearance — " 

"  Well  I  wouldn't." 

I  resumed  my  pipe. 

"Well?" 

"Well?" 

"'  I  thought  you  were  going  to  say  something." 


32 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


"  Oh,  no,  only  your  back  pleased  me  in  certain  other  re- 
spects—     Why,  Mary!" 

It  is  a  fact,  she  was  crying.  After  I  had  made  a  remark 
or  two,  she  said : 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  you  think  I'm  pretty.  Of  course,  I  know 
I'm  not  pretty  myself,  but  I  like  to  have  my  friends  think  so. 
My  nose  is  all  wrong;  isn't  it?  " 

"No!" 

"  And  you  own  now  that  you  were  wrong  in  thinking  me 
vain  ?  " 

"  Why,  Mary,  you  have  proved  that  I  was." 

However,  after  she  had  put  in  all  her  pins,  and  gone  out 
and  shut  the  door,  she  came  back  and  said : 

"  Yes,  I  am  horribly  vain.  I  do  up  my  hair  every  night 
before  I  go  to  bed,  and  I  know  I  have  a  pretty  nose,  and  I 
was  sure  you  admired  me  the  first  time  you  saw  me.  Good 
afternoon." 

But  to-day  when  she  came  in,  she  looked  very  doleful; 
the  reason  was  that  Mary  had  been  reading  a  book  entitled 
"  Why  Do  We  Exist? "  Mary  had  stared  at  this  problem 
with  hard,  unthinking  eyes  until  I  forced  her  to  wink  by 
placing  another  problem  in  front  of  her,  namely,  "  Do  We 
Exist?"  Mary  thought  there  was  little  doubt  of  this  at 
first,  but  after  I  lent  her  Bishop  Berkeley  upon  the  subject, 
she  took  to  pinching  herself  on  the  sly  to  see  if  she  was  still 
there. 

'"Mary!" 

"Yes?" 

"  Dear! " 

"  Yes,  I'm  listening." 

"  You  are  a  dear  good  girl." 

"  No,  I'm  not ;  it's  all  selfishness.  Why,  even  my  charities 
are  a  hideous  kind  of  selfishness.  You  know  that  old  man 
who  sells  matches  on  the  corner — sometimes  I  give  him  a 
penny." 

"  Why,  Mary,  surely  that's  not  selfish." 

"  Yes,  it  is.  I  never  give  him  anything  because  I  see  he 
needs  it,  I  give  it  to  him  because  I  happen  to  be  passing  him 


AND  RECITATIONS.  No.  22.  33 

and  feeling  happier  than  usual.  Oh,  I  should  never  think  of 
crossing  the  street  to  give  him  anything.  My !  I  should  need 
to  be  terrifically  happy  to  do  that." 

Up  to  this  time  you  will  please  observe  that  neither  by 
word,  look,  or  manner  had  I  in  any  way  broken  the  compact 
which  made  our  platonic  friendship  possible,  and  I  would 
have  continued  the  same  treatment  to  the  present  day  had  it 
not  been  for  Mary's  scarf.  Her  scarf  was  to  blame  for  the 
whole  of  it.  It  was  a  strip  of  faded  terra-cotta  gauze,  which 
Mary  always  wound  about  her  mouth  before  going  out  into 
the  fog.  I  could  have  managed  to  endure  that  had  she  not 
recklessly  made  farewell  remarks  through  her  scarf.  I 
warned  her: 

"  Don't  you  come  near  me  with  that  thing  on  your 
mouth." 

And  she  asked,  "  Why?  "  through  the  scarf. 

"  Don't  speak  to  me  with  that  thing  on." 

And  she  said,  "  You  think  I  can't  because  it's  too  tight." 

"  Go  away." 

"  Why,  you  see  it's  quite  loose — why,  I  think  it's  quite 
loose — why,  I  think  I  could  whistle  through  it." 

She  did  whistle  through  it,  and  that  ended  our  platonic 
friendship. 

I  spoke  wildly,  fiercely,  exultingly. 

"  I  don't  care,  Mary — I  don't  care  anyway.  I  like  to  see 
you  crying." 

"  Oh,  I  hate  you! " 

"  No  you  don't,  Mary — don't  screw  your  mouth !  " 

"  Yes  I  will,  too.    You  said—" 

M  It  was  a  lie." 

"  Platonic  friendship — " 

"  Platonic  nonsense !  I  quarreled  with  you  that  time  on 
purpose  to  be  able  to  hold  your  hand  when  we  made  up." 

"  Give  me  my  scarf." 

"  And  all  the  time  we  were  discussing  the  mystery  of 
being  I  was  thinking  how  I  would  like  to  put  my  finger  under 
your  chin  and  flick  it." 

"  Give  me  my  scarf-" 


34 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


"And  I'd  rather  run  my  fingers  through  your  hair  than 
write  the  greatest  poem — " 

But  Mary  had  gone,  leaving  her  scarf  behind  her.  I  flew 
to  the  window.  Six  hansoms  came  at  my  call  and  I  could 
have  dashed  after  her,  but  what  I  saw  made  me  change  my 
mind- — Mary  had  crossed  the  street  on  purpose  to  give  a 
penny  to  the  man  on  the  corner. 


SONG  OF  THE  "LOWER  CLASSES." 


ERNEST   JONES. 


[This  famous  Chartist  leader  and  poet  was  sentenced  in  1848  to  two 
years'  imprisonment.  This  poem  was  written  in  1849  while  in  the 
prison.] 

\A7  E  plough  and  sow,  we're  so  very,  very  low 
*  *       That  we  delve  in  the  dirty  clay; 
Till  we  bless  the  plain  with  the  golden  grain 

And  the  vale  with  the  fragrant  hay. 
Our  place  we  know,  we're  so  very,  very  low, 

'Tis  down  at  the  landlord's  feet. 
We're  not  too  low  the  grain  to  grow,  -^ 

But  too  low  the  grain  to  eat. 

Down,  down  we  go,  we're  so  very,  very  low, 

To  the  hell  of  the  deep  sunk  mines ; 
But  we  gather  the  proudest  gems  that  glow 

When  the  crown  of  the  despot  shines ; 
And  whene'er  he  lacks,  upon  our  backs 

Fresh  loads  he  deigns  to  lay. 
We're  far  too  low  to  vote  the  tax, 

But  not  too  low  to  pay. 

We're  low,  we're  low,  we're  very,  very  low, 

And  yet  from  our  fingers  glide 
The  silken  flow  and  the  robes  that  glow 

Round  the  limbs  of  the  sons  of  pride ; 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22.  35 

And  what  we  get,  and  what  we  give, 

We  know,  and  we  know  our  share ; 
We're  not  too  low  the  cloth  to  weave, 

But  too  low  the  cloth  to  wear. 

We're  low,  we're  low,  we're  very,  very  low, 

And  yet  when  the  trumpets  ring 
The  thrust  of  a  poor  man's  arm  will  go 

Through  the  heart  of  the  proudest  king. 
We're  low,  we're  low — we're  rabble,  we  know. 

We're  only  the  rank  and  file ; 
We're  not  too  low  to  kill  the  foe, 

But  too  low  to  share  the  spoil. 


THE  PRICE. 


TOM    MASSON. 


{From  Munsey's  Magazine,  by  permission  of  Frank  A.  Munsey.J 

Y  better  half  desired  a  wheel. 
I  argued  and  I  thundered, 
But  yielded  when  she  said  to  me 
'Twould  only  cost  a  hundred. 


M 


The  price  for  so  much  pleasure  seemed 
Quite  small  to  me;  I  wondered 

Where  else  such  joy  could  be  obtained 
With  but  a  paltry  hundred. 

With  it  she  ordered  her  a  suit 
That  half  my  income  sundered; 

Yet  pointed  to  her  wheel  with  pride- 
That  only  cost  a  hundred. 

My  market-bills  began  to  rise. 

I  thought  someone  had  blundered; 
But  no,  'twas  due  to  that  new  wheel 

That  only  cost  a  hundred. 


56  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Repair  men  came  and  "  sundries  "  men; 

My  bank-account  they  plundered; 
And  yet  how  glad  I  am  to  feel 

That  wheel  cost  but  a  hundred ! 


A  NAUGHTY  LITTLE  COMET. 


ELLA  WHEELER  WILCOX. 

TTHERE  was  a  little  comet  who  lived  near  the  Milky  Way ; 
*      She  loved  to  wander  out  at  night,  and  jump  about  and 
play. 

The  mother  of  the  comet  was  a  very  good  old  star ; 

She  used  to  scold  her  reckless  child  for  venturing  out  too  far. 

She  told  her  of  the  ogre,  Sun,  who  loved  on  stars  to  sup, 
And  who  asked  no  better  pastime  than  gobbling  comets  up. 

But  instead  of  growing  cautious  and  of  showing  proper  fear, 
The  foolish  little  comet  edged  up  nearer  and  more  near. 

She  switched  her  saucy  tail  along  right  where  the  Sun  could 

see, 
And  flirted  with  old  Mars,  and  was  as  bold  as  bold  could  be. 

She  laughed  to  scorn  the  quiet  stars  who  never  frisked 

about ; 
She  said  there  was  no  fun  in  life  unless  you  ventured  out. 

She  liked  to  make  the  planets  stare,  and  wished  no  better 

mirth 
Than  just  to  see  the  telescopes  aimed  at  her  from  the  Earth. 

She  wondered  how  so  many  stars  could  mope  through  nights 

and  days, 
And  let  the  sickly-faced  old  Moon  get  all  the  love  and  praise. 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22.  37 

And  as  she  talked  and  tossed  her  head  and  switched  her 

shining  trail, 
The  staid  old  mother  star  grew  sad,  her  cheek  grew  wan 

and  pale ; 

For  she  had  lived  there  in  the  Skies  a  million  years  or  more, 
And  she  had  heard  gay  comets  talk  in  just  this  way  before. 

And  by  and  by  there  came  an  end  to  this  gay  comet's  fun, 
She  went  a  tiny  bit  too  far — and  vanished  in  the  Sun ! 

But  quiet  stars  she  laughed  to  scorn  are  twinkling  every 

night. 
No  more  she  swings  her  shining  trail   before   the   whole 

world's  sight. 


YOUNG  LOOHINVAR. 


ELISE  WEST. 


A  Pantomimic  Farce. 

Time  :    Half  an  hour. 
Music :    Songs  of  Scotland. 

CHARACTERS : 

Lochinvar,  tall,- dark,  dashing. 

Ellen,  pretty,  petite,  fair. 

Bridegroom,  awkward,  ridiculous,  pigeon-toed. 

Ellen's  Father,  short,  stout,  excitable. 

Ellen's  Mother,  tall,  thin,  angular,  and  solemn. 

Little  Sister,  inquisitive,  active. 

Priest,  bridesmaids,  groomsmen,  relatives,  etc. 

costumes  : 

All  the  men  but  the  Priest  wear  plaid  kilts  *to  the  knee, 
high  boots,  Tarn  o'  Shanter  caps  with  feather  in  front,  short 
jackets  with  plaid  sash  over  shoulder,  Highland  fashion. 


38  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Ellen  wears  a  simple  white  gown  and  a  veil. 

The  father  carries  a  sword. 

The  mother  wears  a  purple  silk  dress  with  train,  and 
white  lace  fichu  about  throat. 

Little  Sister  wears  a  short  dress,  and  carries  a  large  doll. 

Priest  wears  regulation  attire. 

Bridesmaids  wear  fancy  light  dresses. 

Scott's  poem,  "  Young  Lochinvar,"  should  be  read  aloud 
before  the  curtain  rises. 

SCENE    I. THE    WEDDING    CEREMONY. 

Music :  "  Scots  wha  hae,"  followed  by  "  My  heart  is  sair 
for  somebody/' 

Bridegroom  and  Ellen  in  centre,  Priest  behind  them  with 
hands  over  their  heads  in  blessing.  Father  at  left  of  bride ; 
mother  right  of  groom.  Little  Sister  clinging  to  the 
mother's  hand  and  peeping  over  doll's  head.  Bridesmaids, 
groomsmen,  etc.,  in  background. 

SCENE    II. THE   ENTRANCE   OF    LOCHINVAR. 

Music :  "  Hail  to  the  Chief." 
(  Lochinvar  prances  in  on  a  broomstick,  makes  a  sweeping 
bow  to  the  mother,  kisses  Ellen's  hand,  explains  by  gesture 
to  the  father,  who  has  drawn  his  sword,  that  he  comes  only 
for  the  pleasure  of  the  wedding,  and  places  broomstick  in 
corner.  The  father  in  anger  goes  over  to  the  mother  and 
gesticulates  his  wrath.  Bridegroom  swings  bonnet  help- 
lessly. Ellen  blushes  and  looks  down.  Lochinvar  takes  a  tin 
dipper — a  quart  measure — from  table,  and  hands  it  gallantly 
to  Ellen.  She  kisses  it.  He  takes  a  long  draught,  throws 
down  dipper,  waves  Bridegroom  to  one  side,  and,  taking 
Ellen's  hand,  with  a  deep  bow  motions  for  a  dance.  The 
mother  meantime  makes  frantic  efforts  to  control  Little  Sis- 
ter and  engage  Ellen's  attention,  but  to  no  purpose.  Sets 
begin  to  form  for  the  minuet  or  the  Virginia  reel. 
The  music  of  any  minuet  or  Highland  fling  may  be  used. 
Couples  form  with  Lochinvar  and  Ellen  in  one  set.     The 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22.  39 

father,  the  mother,  Bridegroom,  and  Little  Sister  in  the 
other.  Latter  set  do  as  many  comical  things  as  possible. 
Former  set  dance  as  well  as  possible.  All  dance  out,  leaving 
Lochinvar  and  Ellen  alone. 


I 


SCENE   III. — THE   LOVE-SCENE. 


Music :  "  Annie  Laurie,"  or  "  Comin'  thro'  the  Rye." 
Lochinvar  goes  down  on  his  knees,  clasps  his  hands,  and 
begs  Ellen  to  elope  with  him.  She  at  first  refuses,  but  as 
he  grows  more  and  more  ardent,  she  reluctantly  consents. 
They  embrace  convulsively.  Lochinvar  gets  broomstick. 
Ellen  runs  out  and  returns,  laden  with  a  dress-suit  case,  a 
t>andbox,  an  umbrella  and  a  cape  and  leading  a  small  dog. 
Lochinvar  refuses  to  take  them  and  points  sadly  to  the 
broomstick.  Ellen  pouts,  pleads,  cries,  but  he  remains  ob- 
durate. She  puts  down  all  but  the  dress-suit  case.  Still  he 
refuses.  She  kisses  the  case,  hugs  it  fondly,  takes  a  final 
look  at  the  room,  and  mounts  behind  him. 

SCENE  IV. THE  DEPARTURE. 

Music :  "  The  Bonnets  of  Bonnie  Dundee." 

They  ride  off,  waving  bonnets  and  laughing  together. 

SCENE  V. THE  DISCOVERY. 

Music :  "  The  Blue  Bells  of  Scotland." 

Wedding  party  come  in.  Little  Sister  discovers  Ellen's 
things.  Wild  excitement  ensues.  The  father  summons  the 
clan,  sends  one  of  the  men  for  broomsticks,  and  denounces 
Ellen  in  pantomime.  Men  mount  sticks  and  ride  away. 
Women  wave  handkerchiefs  and  kiss  hands  to  them,  etc. 

SCENE  VI. — THE  MOURNING. 

Music :  "  The  Laird  o'  Cockpen." 

Women  sit  on  floor,  moaning  and  rocking  to  and  fro 
and  trying  to  comfort  the  mother.    Wail  in  time  to  music. 


40  WERNER'S  READINGS 

SCENE  VII. THE  RETURN  OF  THE  CLAN. 

Music :  "Robin  Adair." 

Men  ride  in  sadly,  heads  bowed  on  broomsticks.    Women 
rise  to  meet  them,  and  all  form  a  mournful  tableau. 

CURTAIN. 


TWO  GRAY  WOLVES. 


MARY  ANNABLE  FANTON. 


[From  The  Voice,  by  permission  of  th»  author  and  the  publisher.] 

C  OR  miles  and  miles  the  prairie  stretches  in  a  long,  monot- 
*  onous  roll.  There  is  not  a  sign  of  life ;  the  air  of  com- 
plete desolation  is  appalling,  menacing.  The  wind  springs  up, 
warm  and  enervating, — a  wind  that,  blowing  thus  for  days, 
has  melted  snow-drifts,  opened  streams,  and  driven  to  the 
plains  lean,  hungry  beasts.  Deep  in  a  cave-like  recess  under 
a  jutting  ledge  of  rocks  are  secluded  two  emaciated,  raven- 
ous mountain  wolves.  With  slow  steps  and  yawning  mouths 
they  creep  out  into  the  light.  The  moon  with  its  sudden 
white  glare  affrights  them  and  with  sullen  snarls  they  start 
back.  But  the  fierce  pangs  of  hunger  are  unconquerable  and 
with  light,  quivering  steps  they  creep  through  the  dried 
grass,  guided  by  a  savage  instinct  to  the  plains  below. 


"  It's  a  wild  venture,  Nancy  girl,  out  on  the  prairie  ten 
miles,  a  night  like  this,  with  the  ground  as  soft  as  a  sponge. 
Why,  the  road  takes  you  directly  under  the  bluff." 

"  Yes',  yes,  I  know,  father.  The  ground  is  bad,  but  the 
road  is  safe  enough.  The  last  wolf  was  killed  three  winters 
ago.  In  any  case  it  doesn't  matter,  for  Jack  has  come  for 
me  and  his  mother  is  dying.  She  needs  me,  and  with  Jack 
I'll  not  be  afraid." 

Hardwick,  Nancy's  father,  was  a  genuine  ranchman.    He 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22.  41 

loved  the  life  well.  It  had  brought  him  health  and  home. 
Here,  too,  Nancy  had  grown  from  a  grave,  pretty  child  to 
a  gentle,  beautiful  woman. 

Early  in  the  previous  summer,  Jack  Du  Bois,  Nancy's 
sweetheart,  had  come  from  the  East  with  his  invalid  mother, 
whose  physicians  had  ordered  ranch-life  in  the  West  as  the 
only  remedy  for  her  failing  health. 

And  now  she  was  dying.  When  the.  doctor  had  delivered 
his  final  verdict  Jack's  first  impulse  was  to  go  for  Nancy. 
He  would  start  at  once  and  bring  her  back  before  sunset. 
But  Nancy  was  away  when  he  reached  the  ranch  and  did  not 
return  until  the  last  ray  of  orange  light  had  trailed  down  the 
horizon. 

Now  she  was  begging  her  father  to  let  her  go  with  her 
lover,  who  was  blind  to  all  possibility  of  danger,  knowing  so 
well  his  own  strength  and  courage. 

"  You  always  were  too  much  for  me,  little  girl.  It's 
always  been  '  Yea,  yea,'  when  it  should  have  been  '  Nay, 
nay.'  ^  You  are  all  I  have,  Nancy  child.  There,  there,  no 
tears.  I  know  you  would  be  wretched  not  to  go.  God  keep 
you  safe,  little  girl.  If  aught  happen  her  to-night,  Jack  Du 
Bois,  remember  my  life  ends  with  hers;  both  are  in  your 
keeping." 

"  Father,  don't  speak  so  to  Jack.  He  would  give  his  life 
for  mine." 

The  frown  that  had  deepened  in  Jack's  forehead  disap- 
peared at  the.girl's  words. 

•  '  Nancy  has  spoken  the  truth,"  he  said,  quietly. 

Jack  had  come  over  the  mountain  road  in  the  morning 
and  had  not  thought  the  lower  one  could  be  so  bad. 

It  was  slow  work  for  anxious  hearts.  Half  the  distance 
was  past  and  the  shadow  of  the  bluff  over  them,  before  a 
word  was  spoken. 

Suddenly  Nancy's  horse  shied,  nearly  throwing  her  from 
the  saddle,  so  unexpected  was  the  lurch.  Jack  pulled  the 
beast  up  sharply. 

"  What  happened  him,  Nancy?  " 

The  girl  made  no  response.    With  her  body  bent  forward 


. 


43 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


and  her  neck  stretched,  she  scarcely  seemed  to  breathe  in  her 
concentrated  effort  to  hear. 

"Hush,  Jack,  listen!" 

Her  lover  leaned  forward,  but  rather  to  be  near  her  than 
to  listen,  smiling  down  at  her.  But  as  he  listened  the  smile 
died  away. 

First  there  came  the  soft  thick  sound  of  a  padded  foot- 
fall on  the  moist  ground ;  then  the  sharp,  crackling  noise  of 
broken  underbrush.  A  moment's  silence  was  followed  by 
the  shrill,  savage  yell  of  angry  beasts.  The  wolves  had 
scented  their  prey. 

"  Nancy,  Nancy,  don't  sit  motionless  like  that.  They  are 
breaking  through  the  brush !  They're  almost  upon  us !  Use 
your  whip.    Strike  Modoc  square  between  the  eyes." 

The  horses  quickly  responded  to  the  unaccustomed  touch 
of  the  whip  and  broke  into  a  smart  gallop,  in  spite  of  burn- 
ing hoofs  and  quaking  ground. 

At  the  sound  of  human  voices  the  wolves  settled  into  a 
steady  trot  in  the  horses'  trail.  They  seemingly  made  no 
effort  to  lessen  the  distance  between  them,  but  followed  like 
two  mocking  shadows.  But  the  space  grew  less  and  less,  for 
the  horses  were  beginning  to  weaken.  The  whip,  coaxing 
words,  even  caresses  from  Nancy's  little  hand,  were  pf  no 
avail.  The  oft-repeated  cries  of  the  wolves  affected  the 
horses  like  ague. 

As  Jack  watched  Nancy's  face,  the  pallor,  the  drawn  lines 
at  the  corners  of  the  sweet  mouth,  he  knew  there  was  no^need 
to  explain  the  situation  to  her ;  but  in  the  supple  young  body 
there  was  no  trace  of  cowardly  fear.  What  if  she  wouldn't 
let  him  save  her  ?    She  must,  she  should. 

"  Nancy,  do  not  stop ;  give  Modoc  loose  rein  and  plenty  of 
whip  and  then,  dear,  listen  to  me.  I  will  manage  this  way. 
I'll  leave  my  horse  and  then  I  will  keep  up  with  Modoc. 
Nancy,  for  my  sake, — for  your  father's." 

So  earnestly  was  Jack  pleading,  he  had  forgotten  how  the 
distance  was  narrowing  at  every  word.  Now,  as  he  jumped 
lightly  to  the  ground,  a  yell  of  triumph  arose  almost  at  his 
very  feet. 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22.  43 

"  On,  Modoc,  on !  "  he  cried,  striking  the  horse  wildly  on 
the  neck  and  the  flanks.  The  beast  plunged  furiously  for  a 
moment,  then  darted  across  the  prairie,  but  unencumbered, 
for  Nancy  had  dropped  from  the  saddle  to  her  lover's  side. 

"  Forgive  me,  Jack,  I  couldn't  go." 

"  Shut  your  eyes,  sweetheart." 

But  he  covered  her  face  lest  she  should  see  that  the  horse 
had  gone  down  before  them. 

Jack  stood  with  his  back  to  the  wolves,  so  that  to  the  last 
moment  Nancy  might  be  spared. 

As  he  stood  looking  down  the  road,  he  suddenly  saw  com- 
ing rapidly  toward  him  a  dark  shape, — too  large  for  a  wolf ; 
if  a  horse,  riderless. 

"  Nancy,  look  up,  straight  ahead !  Do  you  see  any- 
thing? " 

"  A  horse,  Jack.     Why,  it's  Modoc  coming  back  to  us !  " 

Suddenly  Nancy  grasped  Jack's  arm  tightly  and  began  to 
whistle  soft  and  low.  The  horse  broke  into  a  gallop ;  he  had 
known  the  call  since  a  pony.  As  he  reached  her,  Nancy 
threw  her  arms  around  his  foam-covered  neck  and  Jack  just 
heard  her  words : 

"  Quickly — in  the  saddle  pocket  at  the  right — the  pistol — I 
remember  it's  loaded,"  and  Nancy  fell  motionless  at  Modoc's 
feet. 

One  of  the  wolves  had  crawled  half  over  the  prostrate 
horse,  but  the  bullet  from  a  clean,  straight  aim  took  him 
squarely  between  the  eyes.  The  revengeful  cry  of  his  mate, 
as  she  bounded  toward  Jack,  was  cut  in  two  by  a  second 
bullet,  then  a  third  and  a  fourth.  Not  until  the  revolver  was 
empty  and  both  wolves  motionless  did  Jack  throw  it  aside 
and  turn  to  the  living. 

It  was  past  midnight  when,  with  Nancy  in  his  arms,  he 
staggered  into  the  door  of  the  little  cabin.  The  doctor 
grasped  his  hand  and  led  him  to  the  bedside. 

"  My  son,  it's  like  a  miracle.    Twice  to-day  we  thought 
her  dying,  but  now  there's  hope.    God  has  been  very  merci- 
ful to  you  this  night." 
v  And  Nancy  crept  to  her  lover's  side  as  she  said,  "Amen." 


44  WERNER'S  READINGS 

A  CHARACTER  SKETCH. 


UNCLE  ABE  an'  Aunt  Maria 
Felt  real  sorrowful  Christmas  eve,  — 
Had  no  coal  to  make  a  fire. 

Uncle  Abe  he  up  an'  grieve, 
Say  in' :  "  The  good  Lord  must  forgot  us! 

What's  de  use  to  watch  an'  pray? 
We  been  good,  an'  now  we're  freezin' !  " 

Aunt  Maria  she  up  an'  say : 
"  Bress  de  Lord,  He  ain't  forgot  us. 

Lift  yo'  heart,  chile ;  don't  you  cry ! 
Put  yo'  trust  in  de  good  Lord  Jesus. 

He  ain't  gwine  to  pass  us  by." 

By  and  by  'long  came  a  coal-cart, 

Wheel  came  off,  it  went  kerflop 
Right  in  front  of  Uncle  Abram's. 

Driver  ran  for  the  blacksmith's  shop. 
Uncle  Abram  'lowed  he  warn't 

"  A-goin'  to  let  such  blessin's  lay." 
Hooked  enough  coal  to  last  all  winter. 

Aunt  Maria  she  up  an'  say: 
*'  Bress  de  Lord !    He  ain't  forgot  us. 

Lift  yo'  heart,  chile,  don't  you  cry ! 
Put  yo'  trust  in  de  good  Lord  Jesus. 

He  ain't  never  passed  us  by !  " 


Some  say  that  kissin's  a  sin 

But  I  think  it's  nane  at  a', 

For  kissin'  has  ruled  in  this  warl' 

E'er  since  that  there  was  twa. 

O  if  it  wasna'  lawful, — lawyers  wadna'  allow  it, 

If  it  wasna'  holy — ministers  wadna'  do  it, 

If  it  wasna'  modest — maidens  wadna'  tak'  it, 

And  if  it  wasna'  plenty — puir  folks  wadna*  get  it. 


AND  RECITATIONS   No.  22.  45 

THE  TEN-HOUR  BILL. 


■THOMAS   BABINGTON   MACAULAY. 


[On  April  29,  1846,  Mr.  Feldon  moved  the  second  reading  of  a  bill 
limiting  the  labor  of  young  persons  in  factories  to  ten  hours  a  day.  The 
following  is  an  extract  from  a  speech  made  by  Lord  Macaulay  with  ref- 
erence to  the  bill.] 

CXACTLY  three  hundred  years  ago,  great  religious 
■"— '  changes  were  taking  place  in  England.  Much  was  said 
and  written  in  that  inquiring  and  innovating  age  as  to 
whether  Christians  were  under  religious  obligations  to  rest 
from  labor  one  day  in  the  week,  and  it  is  well  known  that 
the  chief  reformers  denied  the  existence  of  such  obligations. 

Suppose,  then,  that  Parliament  had  made  a  law  that  there 
should  henceforth  be  no  distinction  between  Sunday  and  any 
other  day.  Our  opponents,  if  they  are  consistent  with  them- 
selves, must  hold  that  such  a  law  would  have  immensely  in- 
creased the  wealth  of  the  country  and  the  remuneration  of  the 
working  man.  What  an  effect,  if  their  principles  be  sound, 
must  have  been  produced  by  the  addition  of  one  sixth  to  the 
time  of  labor!  What  an  increase  of  production!  What  a 
rise  of  wages !  The  Sundays  of  three  hundred  years  make 
up  fifty  years  of  our  working  days.  We  know  what  the  in- 
dustry of  fifty  years  can  do.  We  know  what  marvels  the  in- 
dustry of  the  last  fifty  years  has  wrought.  The  arguments 
of -my  honorable  friend  irresistibly  lead  us  to  this  conclu- 
sion, that  if,  during  the  last  five  centuries,  Sunday  had  not 
been  observed  as  a  day  of  rest,  we  should  have  been  a  far: 
richer,  a  far  more  highly  civilized,  people  than  we  are  nowj 
and  the  laboring  class  especially  would  have  been  far  better 
off  than  at  present. 

But  would  this  have  been  the  case  ?  For  my  own  part,  I 
have  not  the  slightest  doubt  that  if  we  and  our  ancestors  had, 
during  the  last  three  centuries,  worked  just  as  hard  on  Sun- 
day as  on  week  days,  we  should  have  been  at  this  moment 
a  poorer  and  a  less  civilized  people  than  we  are. 


46  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Of  course,  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  a  man  will  not  pro- 
duce more  in  a  week  by  working  seven  days  than  by  work- 
ing six  days.  But  I  very  much  doubt  whether  at  the  end  of 
a  year  he  will  have  generally  produced  more  by  working 
seven  days  a  week  than  by  working  six  days  a  week ;  and  I 
firmly  believe  at  the  end  of  twenty  years  he  will  have  pro- 
duced much  less  by  working  seven  days  a  week  than  by 
working  six  days  a  week.  In  the  same  manner,  I  do  not 
deny  that  a  factory  child  will  not  produce  more  in  a  single 
day  by  working  twelve  hours  than  by  working  ten  hours, 
and  by  working  fifteen  hours  than  by  working  twelve  hours. 
But  I  do  deny  that  a  great  society  in  which  children  work 
fifteen  or  even  twelve  hours  a  day  will  in  the  lifetime  of  a 
generation  produce  as  much  as  if  those  children  had  worked 
less.  We  do  not  treat  a  fine  horse  or  a  sagacious  dog  ex- 
actly as  we  would  treat  a  spinning- jenny.  Nor  will  any 
slave-holder  who  has  the  sense  to  know  his  own  interests 
treat  his  human  chattels  exactly  as  he  treats  his  horses  and 
dogs.  Would  you  treat  the  free  laborer  of  England  like  a 
mere  wheel  or  pulley? 

Why  is  it  that  the  Hindoo  cotton  manufacturer,  close  to 
whose  door  the  cotton  grows,  can  not,  in  the  bazaar  of  his 
own  town,  maintain  a  competition  with  the  English  cotton 
manufacturer  who  has  to  send  thousands  of  miles  for  the 
raw  material  and  who  has  then  to  send  the  wrought  ma- 
terial thousands  of  miles  to  market  ?  You  will  say  it  is  ow- 
ing to  the  excellence  of  our  machinery.  And  to  what  is  the 
excellence  of  our  machinery  owing?  How  many  of  the  im- 
provements which  have  been  made  in  our  machinery  do  we 
owe  to  the  ingenuity  and  patient  thought  of  the  working 
man?  How  long  will  you  wait  before  any  negro  working 
under  the  lash  in  Louisiana  will  contrive  a  better  machinery 
for  squeezing  the  sugar-cane? 

Is  there  anything  in  the  earth  or  in  the  air  that  makes 
Scotland  more  prosperous  than  Egypt ;  that  makes  Holland 
more  prosperous  than  Sicily?  No;  it  was  the  Scotchman 
who  made  Scotland ;  it  was  the  Dutchman  that  made  Hol- 
land.   Look  at  North  America.    Two  centuries  ago  the  sites 


AND  RECITATIONS    No.  22. 


47 


on  which  now  arise  mills  and  hotels  and  banks  and  colleges 
and  churches  and  the  senate-houses  of  flourishing  com- 
monwealths were  deserts  abandoned  to  the  panther  and 
the  bear.  What  has  made  the  change?  Was  it  the  rich 
mold  or  the  redundant  rivers  ?  No ;  the  prairies  were  as  fer- 
tile, the  Ohio  and  the  Hudson  were  as  broad  and  as  full, 
then  as  now.  Was  the  improvement  the  effect  of  some 
great  transfer  of  capital  from  the  Old  World  to  the  New? 
No;  the  emigrants  carried  with  them  no  more  than  a  pit- 
tance ;  but  they  carried  out  the  English  heart  and  head  and 
arm,  and  the  English  heart  and  head  and  arm  turned  the 
wilderness  into  cornfield  and  orchard  and  the  huge  trees  of 
the  primeval  forest  into  cities  and  fleets.  Man,  man,  is  the 
great  instrument  that  produces  wealth.  Therefore,  it  is  that 
we  are  not  poorer  but  richer,  because  we  have  through  many 
ages  rested  from  our  labors  one  day  in  seven.  That  day  is 
not  lost.  While  industry  is  suspended,  while  the  plough  is 
in  the  furrow,  while  the  exchange  is  silent,  while  no  smoke 
ascends  from  the  factory,  a  process  is  going  on  quite  as  im- 
portant to  the  wealth  of  nations  as  any  process  which  is 
performed  on  more  busy  days.  Man,  the  machine  of  ma- 
chines, the  machine  compared  with  which  all  the  contrivances 
(of  the, Wattses  and  the  Arkwrights  are  worthless,  is  repair- 
ing and  winding  up,  so  that  he  returns  to  his  labors  on  Mon- 
day with  clearer  intellect,  with  livelier  spirits,  with  renewed 
corporal  vigor. 


KEEPSAKES 


S 


"P  VERY  lover  has  a  keepsake 
~    To  the  memory  of  his  love; 
Some  a  curl  or  a  ribbon, 
Some  a  flower  or  a  glove. 

But  I  am  rich  in  keepsakes. 

Three  notes  I  treasure  apart : 
Two,  accepting  my  presents, 

And  a  third,  declining  my  heart 


48  WERNER'S  READINGS 

THE    CAPTURE  OF  MAJOR  ANDRE. 


CHAUNCEY   M.   DEPEW. 


[From  Mr.  Depew's  "Orations  and   Speeches,"  Cassell  Publishing  Co.,  pub. 
lishers,  by  permission  of  the  author.] 


[It  is  with  great  pleasure  that  I  include  in  this  collection  the  following 
extract  from  Mr.  Depew's  oration  at  the  centennial  celebration  of  the 
capture  of  Major  Andre  at  Tarrytown,  N.  Y.,  Sept.  23,  1880.  A 
small  child,  I  listened  to  the  words  as  they  fell  from  his  lips  on  that 
memorable  day,  and  I  still  recall  the  breathless  attention  and  the  cheers 
of  the  vast  crowd  surrounding  the  orator.  In  the  rapid  march  of  Ameri- 
can civilization,  legends,  traditions — historic  facts  even — become  dim 
and  forgotten,  and  I  feel  that  the  schoolboy  of  to-day  owes  a  debt  of 
gratitude  to  the  man  who  has  given  him  in  a  vivid,  living  form  the  ' '  one 
overmastering  romance  of  the  Revolution."] 

'"THE  happiness  and  the  progress  of  mankind  have  as  often 
'.*  been  advanced  or  retarded  by  small  events  as  by  great 
battles.  If  the  300  men  with  Leonidas  stemmed  the  Persian 
torrent  and  made  Thermopylae  the  inspiration  of  twenty 
centuries,  in  Tarrytown,  N.  Y.,  three  plain  farmers  of  West- 
chester preserved  the  liberties  of  the  American  people. 

September,  1780,  was  a  gloomy  and  anxious  time  for 
Washington  and  Congress.  Charleston  had  fallen,  and 
Gates  had  been  disastrously  defeated.  New  Jersey  was 
overrun,  and  twenty  thousand  men — veterans  of  European 
battle-fields — were  gathered  in  New  York.  The  only  Ameri- 
can force  worthy  the  name  of  an  army — numbering  less 
than  12,000  men,  suffering  from  long  arrears  of  pay,  with- 
out money  to  send  their  starving  families,  and  short  of  every 
kind  of  supplies — was  encamped  at  and  about  West  Point. 

This  critical  moment  was  selected  by  Arnold,  with  devil- 
ish sagacity,  to  strike  his  deadly  blow.  The  surrender  of  this 
post  controlling  the  passes  of  the  Hudson,  with  its  war  ma- 
terials vital  to  the  maintenance  of  the  patriot  army  and  its 
garrison  of  4,000  troops,  together  with  the  person  of  Wash- 
ington, ended,  in  his  judgment,  the  war. 

For  eighteen  months  a  correspondence  opened  by  Arnold 
had  been  carried  on  between  him  and  Major  Andre  acting 


AND  RECITATIONS,    No.  22. 


49 


for  Sir  Henry  Clinton.  These  letters,  molded  in  the  vocab- 
ulary of  trade  and  treating  of  the  barter  and  sale  of  cattle 
and  goods,  were  really  haggling  about  the  price  of  the  be- 
trayal of  the  liberties  of  America  and  a  human  soul.  The 
time  had  come  for  action,  and  the  British  must  be  satisfied 
as  to  the  identity  of  their  man  and  the  firmness  of  his  pur- 
pose and  commit  him  beyond  the  possibility  of  retreat.  The 
first  meeting  appointed  at  Dobbs  Ferry  failed  and  Arnold 
came  near  being  captured. 

Baffled  but  not  disheartened,  nine  days  after  this  failure 
Arnold,  lurking  in  the  bushes  of  the  Long  Clove  below 
Haverstraw,  sent  a  boat  at  midnight  to  the  Vulture  to  bring 
Andre  to  the  shore.  The  boatmen,  roughly  handled  on  the 
sloop  of  war  for  daring  to  approach  her  without  a  flag  of 
truce,  are  hurried  before  Andre  and  explain  their  mission. 
He  concealed  his  uniform  by  a  cloak  and  determined  to  ac- 
company them.  The  danger,  the  disgrace,  the  prize,  are  be- 
fore him.  If  detected,  a  spy;  if  successful,  at  the  head  of  a 
victorious  column  upon  Fort  Putnam,  receiving  the  sur- 
render of  West'  Point,  a  general's  commission,  the  thanks 
of  Parliament,  the  knightly  honors  of  his  King. 

The  dawn  finds  Arnold  and  Andre  still  in  the  thicket  dis- 
puting about  the  terms.  All  the  morning  that  fearful  bar- 
gaining goes  on,  but  at  last  it  is  settled.  He  receives  the 
papers  giving  the  plans,  fortifications,  armament,  and  troops 
at  West  Point  and  the  proceedings  of  Washington's  last " 
council  of  war,  and  hides  them  between  his  stockings  and  his 
feet.  He  receives  the  assurance  that  the  defenses  shall  be  so 
manned  as  to  fall  without  a  blow  and  assures  Arnold  in  reu 
turn  of  a  brigadier-generalship  "in  the  British  army  and 
7,000  pounds  in  money,  and  bids  him  farewell  until  he  meets 
him  at  the  close  of  a  sham  combat  to  receive  his  surrender 
and  sword. 

Those  two  men  have  determined  the  destinies  of  unborn 
millions.  None  share  their  secret;  there  is  no  one  to  betray 
them.  Once  safely  back  with  those  papers  and  America's 
doom  is  sealed. 

Still  further  disguised  and  armed  with  Arnold's  p-iss  in 


5© 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


the  name  of  John  Anderson,  Andre  crossed  the  river  in  the 
afternoon  to  Verplanck's  Point  and  safely  passed  through 
Livingston's  camp.  Gaily  he  rides,  accompanied  by  a  man 
from  Haverstraw  named  Smith,  through  the  Cortlandt 
woods  and  over  the  Yorktown  hills.  He  laughs  as  he  passes 
the  ancient  guide-post  -bearing  its  legend :  "  Dishe  his  di 
Roode  toe  de  Ksling's  Farray,"  and  his  hair  stood  on  end, 
he  said,  when  he  met  Col.  Webb  of  our  army,  whom  he  per- 
fectly knew,  but  who  stared  at  him  and  went  on.  His  plan 
is  to  strike  the  White  Plains  road  and  so  reach  his  own 
lines.  But  at  Crumpond  Captain  Boyd  stops  them.  A  most 
uncomfortable,  inquisitive,  vigilant  and  troublesome  Yankee 
is  this  same  Captain  Boyd.  Arnold's  pass  stuns  him,  but  it 
requires  all  the  versatility  and  adroitness  of  Andre  to  allay 
his  suspicions.  He  so  significantly  recommends  their  re- 
maining all  night  that  they  dare  not  decline.  A  Westchester 
farmer's  bed  never  had  two  more  uneasy  occupants.  At  early 
dawn  they  departed.  Andre's  spirits  rose.  He  had  left  dis- 
grace and  a  shameful  death  behind  and  saw  only  escape, 
glory  and  renown  before.  Hitherto  taciturn  and  depressed, 
he  now  overwhelmed  his  dazed  companion  with  a  flood  of 
brilliant  talk.  At  Pine's  Bridge,  Smith's  courage  failed 
and  he  bade  his  companion  good-bye.  This  was  another  of 
the  trivial  incidents  that  led  Andre  to  his  fate.  Smith,  with 
his  acquaintance  and  ready  wit,  would  have  piloted  him 
safely  and  satisfied  the  scruples  of  the  yeomen  who  captured 
him.  Andre,  alone  and  free  from  care,  decided  to  strike  for 
the  river ;  it  was  a  shorter  road,  but  it  was  only  another  link 
in  the  chain  winding  about  him. 

He  gallops  along  that  most  picturesque  highway,  recog- 
nizes the  old  Sleepy  Hollow  Church,  and  a  half  mile  to  the 
front  sees  the  bridge  over  the  brook  which  was  to  be  for  him 
a  fatal  Rubicon.  On  the  south  side  of  that  stream,  in  the 
bushes  playing  cards,  were  three  young  farmers  of  that 
neighborhood — John  Paulding,  David  Williams,  and  Isaac 
Van  Wart.  At  the  approach  of  the  horseman  Paulding  steps 
into  the  road,  presents  his  musket  and  calls  a  halt  Andre 
Speaks  first. 


AND  RECITATIONS   No.  22.  51 

"  My  lads,  I  hope  you  belong  to  our  party." 

"  Which  party?  "  they  said. 

"  The  lower  party,"  he  answered. 

"  We  do." 

"Then,  thank  God,  I  am  once  more  among  friends.  I  am 
a  British  officer  out  on  particular  business,  and  must  not  be 
detained  a  minute." 

Then  they  said :  M  We  are  Americans  and  you  are  our 
prisoner  and  must  dismount." 

"  My  God,"  he  said,  laughing,  "a  man  must  do  anything 
to  get  along,"  and  presented  Arnold's  pass. 

Had  he  presented  it  first,  Paulding  said'  afterward  he 
would  have  let  him  go. 

They  carefully  scanned  it,  but  persisted  in  detaining  him. 
He  threatened  them  with  Arnold's  vengeance  for  this  disre- 
spect to  his  order;  but,  in  language  more  forcible  than  po- 
lite, they  told  him  they  cared  not  for  that,  and  led  him  to  the 
great  white-wood  tree,  under  which  he  was  searched.  As 
the  fatal  papers  fell  from  his  feet,  Paulding  said:  "Here  it 
is,"  and  as  he  read  them  he  shouted  in  high  excitement  to  his 
companions :  "  He  is  a  spy !  " 

Now  came  the  crucial  moment.  Andre  had  the  day  before 
bargained  with  and  bought  an  American  major  general  of 
the  highest  military  reputation.  Surely  escape  was  easy 
from  these  three  young  men,  only  one  of  whom  could  read, 
and  who  were  buttressed  by  neither  name  nor  fortune. 

"  If  you  will  release  me,"  said  Andre,  "  I  will  give  you  a 
hundred  guineas  and  any  amount  of  dry  goods.  I  will  give 
you  a  thousand  guineas,"  he  cried,  "  and  you  can  hold  me  as 
hostage  till  one  of  your  number  returns  with  the  money." 

Then  Paulding  swore :  "  We  would  not  let  you  go  for  ten 
thousand  guineas !  " 

That  decision  saved  the  liberties  of  America.  Arnold  and 
Andre,  Paulding,  Williams  and  Van  Wart,  are  characters  in 
a  drama  that  crystallizes  an  eternal  principle :  That  our  Re- 
publican institutions  rest  upon  the  integrity  and  the  patriot- 
ism* of  the  common  people.  The  light  that  made  clear  to 
these  men  the  priceless  value  of  country  and  liberty  was  but 


5 a  .     WERNER'S  READINGS 

the  glimmering  dawn  compared  with  the  noonday  glory  of 
the  full-orbed  radiance  in  which  we  stand.  Their  monument 
is  the  Republic — its  inscription,  upon  the  hearts  of  its  teem- 
ing and  happy  millions. 


THE  MISSING  SHIPS 


o 


ALBERT  LAIGHTON. 

THOU  ever  restless  sea, 

God's  half-uttered  mystery," 
Where  are  all  the  ships  that  sailed  so  gallantly  away  ? 
Tell  us,  will  they  never  more 
Fold  their  wings  and  come  to  shore  ? 
Eyes  still  watch  and  fond  hearts  wait;  precious  freight  had 
they. 

Precious  freight !  ay,  wealth  untold, 

More  than  merchandise  or  gold, 
Did  the  stately  vessels  bear  o'er  the  heaving  main. 

Human  souls  are  dearer  far 

Than  all  earthly  treasures  are, 
And  for  them  we  weep  and  pray.  Must  it  be  in  vain  ? 

In  the  silence  of  the  night, 

Did  they,  with  a  wild  affright, 
Wake  to  hear  the  cry  of  "  fire  "  echo  to  the  stars  ? 

While  the  cruel,  snakelike  flame, 

Creeping,  coiling,  hissing,  came 
O'er  the  deck  and  up  the  mast  and  out  along  the  spars ! 

As  the  doomed  ship  swayed  and  tossed 

Like  a  mighty  holocaust, 
Did  they  with  despairing  cries  leap  into  the  waves? 

Or  with  folded  hands  and  eyes 

Lifted  to  the  peaceful  skies 
Calmly  go  with  prayerful  hearts  to  their  nameless  graves? 


AND  RECITATIONS   No.  22.  53 

Did  the  black  wings  of  the  blast 

Poise  and  hover  o'er  the  mast 
Till  at  last  in  wrath  they  swept  o'er  the  crowded  deck? 

Leaving  not  a  soul  to  tell 

How  the  long  and  awful  swell 
Of  the  ocean's  troubled  breast  bore  a  dismal  wreck; 

How,  amid  the  thunder's  crash 

And  the  lightning's  lurid  flash 
(Autograph  the  storm-king  writes  on  his  scroll  of  clouds), 

High  above  the  deafening  strife 

Piteous  cries  were  heard  for  life, 
Fear-struck  human  beings  seen  clinging  to  the  shrouds  ? 

Or  with  shattered  hulk  and  sail, 

Riding  out  the  stormy  gale, 
Did  the  brave  ship  slowly  sink  deeper,  day  and  night, 

Drifting,  drifting  wearily 

O'er  the  wide  and  trackless  sea, 
Loved  ones  striving,  dying  there,  with  no  sail  in  sight? 

Or  when  winds  and  waves  were  hushed, 

While  each  cheek  with  joy  was  flushed, 
As  they  glided  gently  on,  hope  in  every  breast, 

With  a  sudden  leap  and  shock 

Did  they  strike  some  hidden  rock 
And  go  down,  forever  down  to  their  dreamless  rest  ? 

Did  the  strange  and  spectral  fleet 

Of  the  icebergs  round  them  meet, 
Pressing  closer  till  they  sank  crashing  to  the  deep  ? 

Do  these  crystal  mountains  loom, 

Monuments  of  that  vast  tomb, 
In  the  ocean's  quiet  depths  where  so  many  sleep  ? 

O  thou  ever  surging  sea, 
Vainly  do  we  question  thee. 
Thy  blue  waves  no  answer  bring  as  they  kiss  the  strand ; 
But  we  know  each  coral  grave, 
Far  beneath  the  rolling  wave, 
Shall  at  last  give  up  its  dead,  touched  by  God's  right  hand. 


54  WERNER'S  READINGS 

TRYING  THE  "ROSE  ACT." 


MARIETTA  HOLLEY. 


[From  the  Ladies''  Home  Journal,  bjr  permission  of  the  author  and  the  Curtis  Pub 

lishing  Co.] 

T  T  wuz  a  calm,  fair  morn.  The  sun  streamed  meller  and 
*■  golden  into  the  buttery  winder  where  I  had  been  en- 
gaged in  the  hard  and  toilsome  occupation  of  churnin'. 

Josiah  would  have  helped  me  churn,  he  said  he  would 
have  been  glad  to  have  done  it  all  himself,  but,  unfortunately, 
the  old  harness  wuz  broke  and  he  had  to  be  out  in  the  barn 
a'most  all  the  mornin'.  a-mendin'  it.  It  is  a  dreadful  curious 
coincidence,  but  it  almost  always  happens  so,  that  old  har- 
ness always  breaks  down  on  churnin'  day,  and,  of  course, 
he  couldn't  drive  with  a  martingill  broke  into  or  a  tug  that 
wuzn't  all  right. 

Josiah  had  promised  to  carry  the  butter  to  Jonesville. 
Wall,  I  had  got  it  all  churned,  and  I  s'pose  Josiah  had  heard 
out  to  the  barn  that  the  dasher  had  ceased  its  heavy  motion, 
and  I  s'pose  he  had  got  through  with  the  harness  at  the  same 
time,  for  he  come  in  jest  as  I  wuz  a-workin'  it  over,  and  sot 
down  in  the  kitchen  jest  as  high-spirited  and  darin'  as  he 
wuz  when  he  went  out,  and  more,  too. 

Wall,  while  I  wuz  a-workin'  in  the  salt,  Josiah  took  a  old 
paper  that  I  had  brung  down  from  the  attick  that  mornin', 
to  put  onto  my  buttery  shelves,  and  ever  and  anon  he  would 
read  out  a  paragraph  to  me.    All  to  once  he  cried  out : 

"  Here,  Samantha,  is  sunthin'  that  is  worth  readin'.  Here 
is  eloquence  and  hard  horse  sense.  I  feel  that  I  love  the  man 
that  wrote  that, — I  love  him  dearly." 

"What  is  it?"  sez  I. 

Sez  he :  "  It  is  what  a  lot  of  big  men  say  about  wimmen, 
but  this  one  beats  all."  Sez  he :  "  Jest  listen  to  it.  '  If  I  were 
a  woman  I  would  not  do  anything  important.  I  would 
emulate  the  rose  and  its  wisdom.  I  would  charm  and  be 
silent.  If  I  were  a  woman  I  would  be  just  a  woman  and 
nothing  more,  for  therein  lies   woman's   greatest   charm. 


AND  RECITATIONS   No,  zz.  55 

Man  was  made  to  work  for  woman,  woman  to  charm  him  in 
his  hours  of  ease.'  "  Sez  Josiah:  "  Do  you  hear  that,  Sa- 
mantha?    Do  you  hear  that?  " 

"  Yes,"  sez  I,  "  I  read  them  effusions  when  they  first 
come  out;  it  wuz  when  you  wuz  down  to  Uncle  Ellick's." 

Sez  Josiah :  "  That  is  why  I  missed  seein'  it.  But  why 
didn't  you  tell  me  about  it,  'Samantha?  I  feel  that  I  have 
lost  two  years  of  happiness  in  not  knowin'  such  a  piece  wuz 
wrote.  Oh,  how  I  love  them  three  men — I  love  them  like 
brothers." 

I  wuz  still  demute,  a-leanin'  on  the  heavy  bowl,  a-restin' 
my  worn-out  frame  and  a-contemplatin'  the  fact  that  I  had 
to  pack  the  butter  in  the  tub,  after  it  wuz  lugged  up  out  of 
the  suller.  , 

Ag'in  he  sez :  "  What  do  you  think  of  that  noble  piece, 
Samantha  ?  " 

Sez  I:  "There  is  some  truth  in  most  arguments,  Josiah 
Allen;  but  these  men  go  too  fur  in  their  idees,  they  hain't 
mejum  enough." 

"Yes,  they  be,"  sez  he,  "  they  are  jest  exactly  right,  and 
they  know  it,  and  I  know  it,  and  every  livin'  man  knows  it. 
Oh,  them  men  put  men  and  wimmen  in  their  own  spears 
and  keep  'em  there  so  beautifully!  If  you  would  foller  up 
them  idees,  Samantha  Allen,  I  would  be  the  happiest  man  in 
Jonesville  or  the  world." 

"  Well,"  sez  I,  "  I  would  be  willin'  to  charm  you,  Josiah 
Allen,  but  I  don't  see  how  I  could  allure  and  do  housework 
at  the  same  time." 

And  then  we  had  some  words. 

And  I  sez :  "  This  butter  has  got  to  be  put  down,  and  I 
would  like  to  have  you  bring  up  the  tub  from  the  suller  and 
help  pack  it.  It  is  hard  work  fur  a  woman's  arms  when  they 
are  a'most  broke  off  a'ready." 

1  Wall,"  sez  he,  short  and  terse,  "  ef  I  go  to  Jonesville 
that  democrat  has  got  to  be  greased." 

And  he  ketched  up  his  basin  of  wagon-grease  from  the 
suller-way,  and  started  off,  a'most  on  the  run.  And,  if  you'll 
believe  it,  that  man  slammed  the  door  behind  him,  an'  whether 


56  -        WERNER'S  READINGS 

it  wuz  that  slam  or  whether  it  wuz  his  refusal  to  bring 
up  that  tub,  or  whether  it  wuz  I  wuz  so  tired  out,  or 
whether  it  wuz  that  piece  he  had  read  wuz  a-gratin' 
on  my  nerve  unbeknown  to  me, — whether  it  wuz  any  of 
these  things  or  all  on  'em  put  together,  I  don't  know; 
but  tenny  rate,  before  the  echo  of  that  slam  had  died 
away,  I  jest  dropped  that  butter  ladle  down,  an'  sez  I  to  my- 
self, in  the  inside  of  my  own  mind,  but  firm  and  positive : 

"  I'll  take  you  at  your  word,  Josiah  Allen.  I  will  do  the 
'  rose  act,'  and  you  may  work  for  me  while  I  allure  and 
charm.     I  will  emulate  the  rose  and  be  silent." 

So  I  dropped  everything  right  where  it  wuz,  and  retired 
into  the  parlor  and  turned  all  my  attention  to  the  job  that 
wuz  in  front  of  me. 

I  turned  over  in  my  mind  all  the  pictures  I  had  seen  of 
females  tryin'  to  allure  and  charm,  and  I  recollected,  as  nigh 
as  I  could  remember,  that  they  had  ginerally  been  in  a  settin' 
poster,  so  consequently  I  sot.  I  believe,  too,  it  wuz  proper 
for  me  to  sort  o'  clasp  my  hands  in  a  easy,  graceful  attitude 
and  smile  some,  so  consequently  I  smiled  considerable. 

Wall,  jest  as  I  got  my  hands  clasped  in  a  very  graceful 
and  allurin'  attitude,  and  my  lips  wreathed  in  a  winsome 
smile,  my  pardner  entered  with  his  basin  of  wagon-grease 
in  his  hands. 

I  set  where  I  could  see  him  plain.  He  glanced  into  the 
buttery,  and  sez  he: 

"  Gracious  heavens !  -  Hain't  that  butter  finished  ?  Nor 
the  tea-kettle  on  at  half-past  eleven  ?  What  is  the  matter  ?  " 
sez  he,  a-standin'  in  the  doorway  and  glarin'  at  me.  "  What 
is  the  matter,  Samantha  ?  " 

I  smiled  at  him  as  sweet  as  I  knew  how,  but  kep'  silent. 

Ag'in  he  yelled :  "  Why  in  the  name  o'  the  gracious  Peter 
hain't  dinner  under  way?  " 

Ag'in  I  smiled,  and  ag'in  I  kept  silent. 

And  finally  he  sez,  lookin'  clost  at  me :  "  What  are  you 
a-tryin'  to  do,  anyway  ?  " 

*'  Josiah  Allen,  I'm  a-tryin'  to  allure  and  charm." 

Sez  he :  "  You  are  a-bein'  a  big  goose,  that's  what  you're 
a-bein'." 


AND  RECITATIONS   No.  22.  57 

But  I  still  smiled  and  murmured,  gently  and  tenderly : 

"  Sweet  pet." 

He  yelled  in  nearly  frenzied  axents :  "  I  shall  lose  the 
chance  to  sell  that  butter !  And  I  am  starved!  Twenty- four 
hours  since  I've  eat  a  mouthful  1" 

His  axents  wuz  dreadful, — stormy  and  angry  and  voya- 
lant  in  the  extreme.  But  like  a  still  small  voice  after  a 
tempest,  I  murmured  to  him  in  gentle  and  winnin'  axents : 

"  Men  are  made  to  work  for  wimmen,"  and  I  added,  in 
still  tenderer  and  sweeter  tones,  "  You'll  find  the  butter 
smasher  in  the  buttery  winder  and  the  chicken  to  brile  in  the 
storeroom." 

And  then  I  gin  him  about  three  full  smiles  an*  sez : 

"  The  mop  is  a-hangin'  up  behind  the  back  room  door  and 
the  stove-brush  and  blackin'  are  in  the  suller-way,  and  the 
lamp-chimney  cleaner  is  a-hangin'  up  over  the  kitchen  sink." 

So  arjous  had  been  my-  work,  a-doin'  that  immense 
churnin',  that  my  usual  mornin's  work  was  neglected  and 
ondone. 

"  What  are  you  a-goin'  to  do?  "  he  yelled. 

"  I  am  a-goin'  to  charm  you,  Josiah.  '  Wimmen  are 
made  to  charm  men.'  They  should  do  nothin'  important. 
Cookin' is  important;  therefore,  I  will  not  cook.  A  clean 
house  is  important;  therefore,  I  will  not  clean.  I  will  emu- 
late the  rose  an'  its  wisdom.      I  will  charm  and  be  silent." 

"  Are  you  a  dumb  lunatick?  "  sez  he.  "  Or  what  does  ail 
you  ?  "  and  he  put  on  his  glasses  and  looked  closer  at  me. 
And  anon  as  he  looked  I  seen  a  change  come  over  my  pard- 
ner's  face !  His  angry  mean  subsided,  and  a  look  of  intense 
and  questionin'  alarm  swept  over  his  eyebrow.  And  I  see 
him  glance  at  the  camphire  bottle.  And  anon  he  turned 
silently  and  reached  up  the  stairway  for  the  soapstun,  with 
his  eye  on  me  all  the  time. 

And  he  sez :  "'  Don't  you  want  to  be  rubbed,  Samantha  ? 
Where  is  your  worst  pain?  Won't  camphire  relieve  you? 
Shall  I  go  after  Miss  Gowdy  or  the  doctor?  " 

Sez  I :  "Jos^an  Allen,  I  don't  want  soapstuns  or  camphire. 
I  want  reason  and  common  sense  in  my  companion ;  that  is 


58  WERNER'S  READINGS 

what  I  want  to  relieve  me.  I  have  tried  jest  as  faithful  as 
ever  a  woman  did  to  foller  after  the  rules  you  read  this 
mornin'.  You  said  you  loved  the  men  that  wrote  'em,  and 
if  I  would  only  foller  them  rules  you  would  be  the  happiest 
man  in  Jonesville  or  the  world.  I  have  follered  'em  faithful 
for  about  twenty  minutes,  and  it  has  reduced  you  to  the  con- 
dition of  a  lunatick.  If  twenty  minutes  of  it  has  brought  you 
to  this  state,  what  would  hours  and  days  of  it  do,  and 
years  ? " 

He  stomped  on  the  floor,  he  kicked;  but  I  kept  firm  and 
smiled  onto  him,  and  ag'in  I  called  him  "  sweet,  darlin'  pet." 

Suffice  it  to  say  that  at  twelve  o'clock  (and  he  said  he 
hadn't  had  a  mouthful  to  eat  in  forty-eight  hours)  he 
capitulated  with  no  terms. 

He  said :  "  Dear  Samantha,  I  have  had  enough  of  the 
'  rose  act.'  I  have  had  enough  of  allurin'  and  charmin'. 
Now  I  want  some  meat  vittles,  and  I  want  'em  quick." 

So  I  got  right  up  and  got  as  good  a  dinner  as  hands  ever 
got,  but  quick.  And  while  I  was  a-gittin'  the  dinner  I  got 
time  to  finish  that  last  layer  o'  butter,  and  imegiatly  after 
dinner  I  put  a  snow-white  cloth  over  it,  sprinkled  it  with 
salt  on  top,  and  Josiah  sot  off  in  good  season,  after  all,  for 
Jonesville.  And  at  his  request,  I  put  on  my  brown  alpacky 
dress.     And  as  we  went  along  we  visited  very  agreeable. 

He  said:  "That  sweet  flowery  talk  read  well  and  made 
men  feel  kinder  generous  and  comfortable  to  write  it,  and 
made  men  feel  dretful  sort  o'  patronizin'  toward  wimmen  to 
read  it ;  but  it  wouldn't  work  worth  a  cent." 

"  No,"  sez  I.  "  And  I  felt  like  a  fool,  a-settin'  there  a-try- 
in*  to  allure  and  charm,  a-smilin'  stiddy  when  I  knew 
everythin'  wuz  at  loose  ends  in  the  kitchen.  I  wuz  as  happy 
ag'in  when  I  wuz  out  a-gittin'  your  dinner." 

"  And,"  sez  he,  "  as  I  said,  such  talk  reads  well  and  it  is 
a  comfort  to  the  men  to  write  it  and  the  men  to  read  it. 
But,"  sez  he,  "come  to  crumple  right  down  to  real  life,  it 
won't  work,  and  if  it  did,  men  would  git  sick  of  it, — sick  as 
a  dog." 

And  then  we  rode  on  blandly  together. 


AND  RECITATIONS   No.  22.  59 


THE  JEST  OP  PATE. 


SAM  WALTER  FOSS. 

ONCE  Fate,  with  an  ironic  zest, 
Made  man,  and  made  him  quite  in  jest. 
"  From  out  the  void  I  man  evoke," 
Said  Fate,  "  my  best  and  latest  joke. 
I'll  stand  him  on  two  slender  props, 
Two  pins  on  which  the  creature  hops. 
I'll  watch  the  unbalanced,  gawky  sprawl,-— 
Prong  after  prong  behold  him  crawl ; 
And  when  a  strong  wind  from  the  East 
Blows  on  this  perpendicular  beast, 
I'll  laugh  to  see  him  topple  o'er, 
And  all  the  gazing  gods  shall  roar. 

"  Thi§  mite  shall  feed  the  lion's  maw 
And  dangle  from  the  tiger's  paw, 
Shall  be  the  sportive  panther's  prey, 
And  flee  from  dragons  night  and  day. 
This  featherless  bird  of  awkward  mold 
Shall  chatter  through  the  winter's  cold; 
No  hair  or  wool  to  him  I  give, 
No  turtle-shell  in  which  to  live, 
Nor  can  he  like  the  bear,"  said  Fate, 
"  Dig  holes  in  which  to  hibernate. 
Out  in  the  universe  I  fling 
This  naked,  helpless,  shivering  thing. 
This  is  of  all  my  jokes  the  best, 
This  is  my  masterpiece  of  jest ! " 

But  Fate,  in  mixing  man  his  brains, 
Forgot  to  take  the  usual  pains, 
Dropped  in — and  made  a  fearful  muss— 
An  extra  scoop  of  phosphorus. 


60  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Then  man  said  slyly :  "  Just  you  wait 
And  /  will  get  a  joke  on  Fate." 

He  did  not  feed  the  lion's  maw 

Nor  dangle  on  the  tiger's  claw, 

But  cut  those  creatures  into  steak, 

And  from  their  hides  warm  clothes  did  make. 

The  whirlwind  from  the  East  might  blow, 

But  still  it  could  not  overthrow 

This  featherless  biped,  for,  'tis  plain, 

This  extra  phosphorus  in  his  brain 

Was  just  enough  upon  each  limb 

To  hold  him  up  and  balance  him. 

And  so,  through  all  the  years  that  come, 

He  keeps  his  equilibrium. 

And  thus  this  pronged  and  toppling  thing 
Stood  straight  and  made  himself  a  king. 
This  straddling  biped  did  not  fail 
To  tame  the  elephant  and  whale, 
To  hold  the  lightning  in  his  hand 
And  rule  the  elements  at  command, 
And,  sheltered  safe  from  wounds  and  scars, 
His  thoughts  went  out  beyond  the  stars 
And  traveled  o'er  Time's  shoreless  sea 
And  wandered  through  eternity. 
And  baffled  Fate  said :  "  Well,  I  see 
This  fellow's  got  the  joke  on  me/' 

But  let  not  pride  soar  forth  too  high 
And  gloat  on  our  immensity, 
But  think  sometimes  of  what  a  flout 
And  failure  we  had  been,  without 
That  slip  of  Fate  in  making  us,  — 
That  extra  scoop  of  phosphorus ! 


AND  RECITATIONS   No.  22.  61 


<> 


J^         BOB. 


HENRY   W.   GRADY. 


YOU  are  the  no-countest,  laziest,  meanest  dog  that  ever 
wore  breeches !    Never  let  me  see  you  again !  " 
Thus  spoke  Mrs.  Tag  to  Mr.  Tag,  her  husband ;  she  stand- 
ing in  the  door,  her  arms  akimbo,  and,  cat-like,  spitting  the 
words  at  him. 

Mr.  Tag  made  no  reply.  He  stood  dazed  and  bewildered, 
las  one  in  a  sudden  shower;  then  turning,  he  pulled  his  old 
hat  down  over  his  ears,  as  if  she  was  throwing  rocks  at 
him  instead  of  words,  and  shambled  off  in  silence  to  meet 
tne  on  the  top  of  the  hill. 

"Ann  was  sorter  rough  to  me,  warn't  she?  "  he  said,  with 
a  chuckle  of  deprecation. 

I  assented  quietly  to  the  lack  of  smoothness  in  Ann's  re- 
marks. 

"  You  ain't  knowed  me  long,"  he  said,  with  a  sudden 
flicker  of  earnestness,  "  an'  you've  knowed  the  worst  part  oi 
me.  You've  knowed  the  trouble  and  the  fag-end.  You 
warn't  in  at  the  good  part  of  my  life !  " 

I  should  think  not,  poor  fellow.  Ever  since  I  had  known 
him  he  had  been  the  same  shabby  good-for-nothing  that  he 
i  is  now. 

"  I  was  a  better  man  once ;  not  a  better   man,  either,  as  I 

!  know  of,  but  I  had  luck.    When  me  an'  Ann  was  married, 

i  there  warrt't  a  happier  couple  nowhere.     I  remember  just 

;  as  well  when  I  courted  her.    She  didn't  think  about  me  then 

as  she  does  now.     We  had  a  buggy  to  ourselves,  an'  we 

turned  down  a  shady  road.     It  seemed  like  that  road  was 

the  road  to  heaven,  an'  we  was  so  happy  that  we  warn't  in 

no  hurry  to  get  to  the  end  of  it.    Ann  was  handsome  then. 

Oh,  yes,  she  was !  " — as  I  winced  at  this — "  an'  at  first  as 

good  a  wife  to  me  as  ever  a  man  had. 

"  It  may  'a'  been  me  that  started  the  trouble.     I  was  un- 


62 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


'fortnit  in  everything  I  touched.  My  fingers  slipped  off  of 
everything,  an'  everything  slipped  off  of  them.  I  could  get 
no  grip  on  nothin'.  I  worked  hard,  but  sumpin  worked 
harder  ag'in'  me.  Ann  wa,s  ambitious  an'  uppish,  an'  I  used 
to  think  when  I  come  home  at  night,  most  tired  to  death,  she 
was  gittin'  to  despise  me.  She'd  snap  me  up  an'  abuse  me  till 
actually  I  was  afraid.  I  never  misused  her  or  give  her  a  back 
word.  I  thought  may  be  she  warn't  to  blame,  an'  that  what 
she  said  about  me  was  true.,  Things  kept  a-gittin'  worse, 
an'  we  sold  off  pretty  much  what  we  had.  Five  years  ago 
a  big  surprise  came  to  us.  It  was  a  baby — a  boy — him !  " 
nodding  toward  the  hut. 

"  It  was  a  surprise  to  both  of  us.  We'd  been  married 
fourteen  years.  It  made  Ann  harder  on  me  than  ever.  She 
never  let  me  rest;  it  was  all  the  time  hard  words  an'  hard 
looks.  I  never  raised  even  a  look  against  her,  of  course.  I 
thought  she  was  right  about  me.  Him  an'  me  knowed  each 
other  from  the  start.  We  had  a  langwidge  of  our  own. 
There  warn't  no  words  in  it — just  looks  an'  grunts.  At  last 
Ann  commenced  takin'  in  washin',  an'  one  day  she  said  I 
shouldn't  hang  around  no  more  a-eatin'  him  an'  her  out  of 
house  an'  home.  ■  That  was  more'n  a  year  ago,  an'  I  ain't 
seen  him  since  to  talk  to  him.  Every  time  I  go  about  she 
hustles  me  about  as  she  did  to-day.  I  never  make  no  fuss. 
She's  right  about  me,  I  reckovn.  I  am  powerful  no  'count. 
But  he  has  stirred  things  in  me  I  ain't  felt  movin'  for  many 
a  year !  "  , 

"What's  his  name,  Bob?" 

"  Got  none.  She  never  Would  let  me  talk  to  her  about  it, 
an'  I  ain't  got  no  right  to  name  him.  I  ast  her  once  how 
it  would  do  to  call  him  '  Little  Bob/  art'  she  said  I  had  better 
git  him  sumpin  to  eat;  he  couldn't  eat  a  name,  nor  dress  in 
it,  neither,  which  was  true.  But  he's  got  my  old  face  on 
him  an'  my  looks.     I  know  that  an'  he  knows  it,  too." 

I  met  Bob  a  few  days  after  that  in  a  state  of  effusive 
.delight. 

"  Had  a  picnic  to-day." 

"A  picnic!    Who?" 


AND  RECITATIONS   No.  22.  63 

"  Me  an'  him !  You  don't  know  Phenice — the  neighbor's 
gal  as  misses  him  sometimes  ?  Well,  I  seed  her  out  with  him 
to-day,  an'  I  tolled  her  off  kinder,  till  she  got  beyant  the  hill, 
an'  then  I  got  an'  purposed  as  how  she  should  give  me  a  little 
time  with  him.  She  sciddled  off  to  town  to  git  her  quarter 
spent,  an'  I  took  him  an'  made  for  the  woods,  to  meet  her 
thar  ag'in,  by  sun  f 

"  He's  a  deep  one,  I  tell  you !  "  he  said,  drawing  a  breath 
of  admiration ;  "as  deep  a  one  as  ever  I  see.  He'd  never 
been  in  the  woods  before,  but  he  knowed  it  all !  You  orter 
see  him  when  a  jay-bird  come  an'  sot  on  a  high  limb,  an' 
flung  him  some  sass,  an'  tried  to  sorter  make  free  with  him. 
The  look  that  boy  give  him  couldn't  'a'  been  beat  by  nobody. 
The  jay  tried  to  hold  up  to  it  an'  chaffered  a  little,  but  he 
finally  had  to  skip,  the  wust  beat  bird  you  ever  saw !  " 

And  so  the  old  fellow  went  on,  telling  me  about  that  won- 
derful picnic. 

It  was  late  that  night  when  I  went  home — after  one 
o'clock — a  fearful  night,  too.  The  rain  was  pouring  in  tor- 
rents and  the  wind  howled  like  mad.  Taking  a  near  cut 
home,  I  passed  by  the  hut  where  Bob's  wife  lived.  Through 
the  drifting  rain  I  saw  a  dark  figure  against  the  side  of  the 
house.  Stepping  closer,  I  saw  that  it  was  Bob,  mounted  on 
a  barrel,  flattened  out  against  the  planks,  his  old  felt  hat  down 
about  his  ears,  and  the  rain  pouring  from  it  in  streams,  his 
face  glued  to  the  window,  gazing  in  stealthily  at  the  bed 
where  the  little  one  slept  and  warming  his  old  heart  up  with 
the  memory  of  that  wondrous  picnic. 

One  morning,  many  months  after  the  picnic,  Bob  came  to 
me  sideways.  His  right  arm  hung  limp  and  inert  by  his  side, 
and  his  right  leg  dragged  helplessly  after  the  left.  The 
yielding  muscles  of  the  neck  had  stiffened  and  drawn  his 
head  awry.  He  stumbled  clumsily  to  where  I  was  standing, 
and  received  my  look  of  surprise  shamefacedly. 

"  I've  had  a  stroke,"  he  said.  "  Paralysis !  It's  most  used 
me  up.  I  reckon  I'll  never  be  able  to  do  anything  for  him ! 
It  came  on  me  sudden,"  he  said,  as  if  to  say  that  if  it  had 
given  him  any  sort  of  notice,  he  could  have  dodged  it. 


64  WERNER'S  READINGS 

After  that  Bpb  went  on  from  worse  to  worse.  His  face, 
all  save  that  fixed  in  the  rigid  clasp  of  the  paralysis,  became 
tremulous,  pitiful,  and  uncertain.  He  had  lost  all  of  the 
chirrupy  good-humor  of  the  other  days,  and  became  shy  and 
silent.  There  was  a  wistfulness  and.  yearning  in  his  face 
that  would  have  made  your  heart  ache ;  a  hungry  passion  had 
struggled  from  the  depth  of  his  soul,  and  peered  out  of  his 
blue  eyes,  and  tugged  at  the  corners  of  his  mouth.  There 
was,  too,  a  pitiful,  scary  look  about  him.  He  had  the  air  of 
one  who  is  pursued.  I  learned  that  his  wife  had  become 
even  harder  upon  him  since  his  trouble,  and  that  he  was  even 
more  than  ever  afraid  of  her. 

-  •  Bob,"  I  said  to  him,  one  morning,  "  you  rascal,  you 
are  starving!  " 

He  couldn't  deny  it.  He  tried  to  put  it  off,  but  he 
couldn't.    His  face  told  on  him. 

"  Have  you  had  anything  to  eat  to-day?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

"Nor  yesterday?" 

"  No,  sir." 

I  gave  him  a  half-dollar.  A  wolfish  glare  of  hunger  shot 
into  his  eyes  as  he  saw  the  money.  He  clutched  it  with  a 
spasm  of  haste  and  started  off.  I  watched  his  sidelong  walk 
down  the  street,  and  then  went  to  work,  satisfied  that  he 
would  go  off  and  pack  himself  full.  It  was  hardly  an  hour 
before  he  came  back,  his  face  brighter  than  I  had  seen  it  in 
months.  He  carried  a  bundle  in  his  live  hand.  He  laid  it 
on  my  desk,  and  then  fell  back  on  his  dead  leg,  while  I 
opened  it.  I  found  in  the  bundle  a  red  tin  horse  attached  to 
a  blue  tin  wagon,  on  which  was  seated  a  green  tin  driver.  I 
looked  up  in  blank  astonishment. 

'"For  him !  "  he  said,  simply,  and  then  he  broke  down. 

"  Gould  you  send  it  to  him  ?  "  he  said,  at  last.  "  If  she 
knew  I  sent  it,  she  mightn't  let  him  have  it.  He's  never  had 
nothin'  of  this  kind,  an'  I  thought  it  might  pearten  him  up." 

"  Bob,  is  this  the  money  I  gave  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  And  you  were  starving  when  you  left  here?  " 


AND  RECITATIONS   No,  22.  65 

"  Oh,  I  got  some  bread !  " 

I  suppose  every  man,  woman  and  child  remembers  that 
terrible  night  three  years  ago  when  we  had  lightning  while 
the  .snow  was  on  the  ground.  The  flashes  plowed  great 
yellow  seams  through  the  gray  of  the  day,  and  at  night  a 
freezing  storm  of  sleet  and  rain  came.  Bob's  wife  slept  un- 
easily that  night.  She  rolled  in  her  sleep  a  long  time,  and 
at  last  got  up  and  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out.  She 
shuddered  at  the  sound  of  the  whizzing  sleet  and  the  pitiless 
hum  of  the  rain  on  the  roof.  Then  she  stumbled  sleepily 
back  to  her  couch  and  dreamed  of  a  long  shady  lane,  and  a 
golden  green  afternoon  in  May  and  a  bright-faced  young 
fellow  that  looked  into  her  heart  and  held  her  face  in  his 
soft  fingers.  How  this  dream  became  tangled  in  her 
thoughts,  that  night  of  all  nights,  she  never  could  tell.  But 
there  it  was,  gleaming  like  a  thread  of  gold  through  the 
dismal  warp  and  woof  of  her  life. 

It  was  full  day  when  she  awoke.  As  she  turned  lazily 
upon  her  side,  she  started  up  in  affright.  There  was  a  man, 
dripping  wet,  silent,  kneeling  by  her  bedside.  An  old  felt 
hat  lay  upon  the  floor.  The  man's  head  was  bowed  deep  down 
over  the  bed  and  his  hands  were  bundled  tenderly  about  one 
of  the  baby's  fists  that  had  been  thrown  above  its  head. 

The  worn,  weatherbeaten  figure  was  familiar  to  her,  but 
there  was  something  that  stopped  her,  as  she  started  for- 
ward angrily.  She  stood  posed  like  a  statue  for  a  moment, 
then  bent  down,  curiously  and  tenderly,  and  with  trembling 
fingers  pulled  the  cover  back  from  the  bed,  and  looked  up 
into  the  man's  face  steadily.  Then  she  put  her  fingers  on 
his  hand,  furtively  and  shrinkingly.  Then  a  strange  look 
crept  into  her  face — the  dream  of  the  night  came  to  her  like 
a  flash — and  she  sank  back  upon  the  floor,  and  dropped  her 
head  between  her  knees. 

Ah,  yes,  Bob  had  "  come  home  to  stay." 


66  WERNER'S  READINGS. 

AN  INFORMAL  PRAYER. 


u  r-p  jj£  proper  way  for  a  man  to  pray,'* 

*      Said  Deacon  Lemuel  Keys, 
"  And  the  only  proper  attitude, 

Is  down  upon  his  knees." 
"  No ;  I  should  say  the  way  to  pray," 

Said  Rev.  Dr.  Wise, 
"  Is  standing  straight,  with  outstretched  arms 

And  rapt  and  upturned  eyes." 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  no !  "  said  Elder  Slow ; 

"  Such  posture  is  too  proud. 
A  man  should  pray  with  eyes  fast  closed 

And  head  contritely  bowed." 
"'  It  seems  to  me  his  hands  should  be 

Austerely  clasped  in  front, 
With  both  thumbs  pointed  toward  the  ground/ 

Said  Rev.  Dr.  Hunt. 

"  Las'  year  I  fell  in  Hodgkin's  well, 

Head  n/st,"  said  Cyrus  Brown,  > 

"  With  both  my  heels  a-stickin'  up, 

My  head  a-p'intin'  down; 
An'  I  made  a  prayer  right  then  an'  there — 

Best  prayer  I  ever  said — 
The  prayin'est  prayer  I  ever  prayed, 

A-standin'  on  my  head." 


In  a  railroad  train  in  Scotland  was  an*  old  lady  with  a 
large  hand-satchel.  She  sat  quietly  looking  out  of  the  win- 
dow until  the  brakeman  opened  the  door  and  called  out: 
"  Any  passengers  for  Doon  ?  "  Then  she1  looked  up  quickly, 
but  said  nothing.  Shortly  afterward  the  train  stopped  and 
the  brakeman  again  opened  the  door  and  said :  "  Doon ! 
All  this  way  for  Doon."  About  two  hours  later  the  old  lady 
leaned  over  and  said  confidentially  to  the  person  next  her: 
*  Ah'm  for  Doon,  but  ah'd  no  tell  that  man  ma  beeznesg." 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22.  67 

THE  HALLIDAY  HUNT  BREAKFAST. 


ALFRED  STODDART. 


[From  the  Criterion,  by  permission  of  the  publishers.] 

MR.  PERCIVAL  SATTERLEE  was  anxiously  consid- 
ering a  communication.  It  was  an  invitation — one 
which  hundreds  of  young  men  in  New  York  City  would  have 
given  half  they  possessed  to  receive.  Satterlee  himself 
would  not  have  parted  with  it.  Yet  the  receipt  of  it  had  em- 
barrassed him  not  a  little.    It  read  as  follows : 

•  "  Halliday  Hall,  Long  Island. 
"  Dear  Mr.  Satterlee: 

"  We  are  down  here  for  a  few  weeks  of  the  fox-hunting 
season,  and  Mr.  Halliday  and  I  would  be  pleased  to  have  you 
make  one  of  our  house-party  for  ten  days  from  next 
Wednesday.  Mr.  Halliday  desires  me  to  add  that  the  Mead- 
owmere  hounds  will  meet  at  our  house  on  Thursday,  and 
that  he  has  arranged  to  mount  all  his  guests. 
"  Hoping  that  you  may  be  able  to  come,  I  am 
"  Very  sincerely  yours, 

"  Lavinia  Halliday." 

It  was  a  poser.  On  the  one  hand  was  the  undoubted  op- 
portunity to  meet  again  and  make  ardent  love  to  the  rich 
and  beautiful  Miss  Halliday;  on  the  other — Satterlee  had 
dreadful  doubts  and  misgivings  as  to  his  horsemanship,  and 
the  invitation  seemed  to  threaten  fox-hunting  and  hard 
riding  between  every  line.  Miss  Halliday  herself  Satterlee 
knew  to  be  an  ardent  sportswoman,  who  rode  to  hounds  and 
was  said  to  break  her  own  horses ;  while  her  father,  who  was 
celebrated  in  his  youth  as  a  gentleman  jockey,  was  consid- 
ered one  of  the  hardest  riders  of  the  Long  Island  hunting 
set.  As  Mr.  Satterlee's  experience  in  this  direction  had  been 
limited  to  one  ride  in  a  riding-school,  upon  which  occasion 


68  WERNER'S  READINGS 

he  had  come  dangerously  near  falling  off,  it  was  no  wonder 
that  the  thought  of  the  Halliday' s  house-party  made  his  face 
pale  and  caused  his  hand  to  tremble.  For,  to  tell  the  truth, 
Mr.  Satterlee  was  desperately  smitten  with  lovely  Diana 
Halliday.  She  was  indeed  a  charming  bit  of  femininity — 
apart  from  the  prospective  thirty  thousand  a  year — with  the 
sweetest  disposition  in  the  world.     Satterlee  groaned. 

"  I  was  just  beginning  to  make  some  headway,"  he  mut- 
tered, "and  now  they  must  get  up  this  precious  scheme  to 
compel  me  to  make  an  ass  of  myself.  One  thing  is  very 
sure,"  he  snapped,  "  if  Diana  ever  marries  me  I'll  soon  put 
an  end  to  this  fox-hunting  nonsense." 

At  first  'he  thought  of  going  down  to  Halliday  Hall  and 
frankly  acknowledging  that  he  couldn't  ride.  Then  he  re- 
membered how  frequently  he  had  Iboasted  of  his  horseman- 
ship to  Miss  Halliday  at  dinners  and  at  dances.  Clearly 
that  would  not  do.  Finally,  he  had  almost  decided  to  decline 
the  invitation  altogether,  when  Dick  Middleton  entered  the 
room. 

"Why,  hello,  Percy,"  cried  Dick;  "you  seem  to  have 
something  on  your  mind.    What's  your  trouble  ?  " 

"  I've  just  had  a  line  from  Mrs.  Halliday,"  said  Satterlee, 
striving  to  conceal  his  triumph,  for  Middleton  was  one  of  his 
hated  rivals  for  the  favor  of  the  fair  Diana.  "  She  wants 
me  to  join  her  house-party  at  Halliday  Hall  next  week." 

"  Better  go,  old  man,"  returned  Middleton,  promptly. 
"  Good  house — good  people — good  sport — I'll  be  there,"  he 
added,  by  way  of  a  final  inducement. 

Satterlee  gasped.  It  was  a  bitter  blow,  but  it  settled  the 
question.  Moved  by  a  sudden  inspiration,  he  hastily  penned 
the  following  to  Mrs.  Halliday: 

" Club. 

"  My  Dear  Mrs.  Halliday: 

"  It  gives  me  great  pleasure  to  accept  your  very  kind  in- 
vitation for  next  Wednesday.  I  regret  to  say,  however,  that 
my  part  in  the  sport  to  follow  will  not  be  a  conspicuous  one, 
as  I  had  the  misfortune  to  sprain  my  bridle  wrist  badly  while 


And  recitations  No.  22.  .  69 

hunting  in  Pennsylvania  recently.  Perhaps  the  accident 
may  prove  a  blessing,  as  I  trust  it  will  enable  me  to  enjoy 
more  of  your  society  during  my  stay. 

"  Very  truly  yours, 

"  Percival  Satterlee." 

"  That  last  is  a  fine  stroke,"  said  Satterlee  to  himself. 

Halliday  Hall  presented  a  spirited  scene  on  the  following 
Thursday.  Extensive  preparations  had  been  made  and  were 
now  being  perfected  for  the  hunt  breakfast. 

Satterlee,  his  left  arm  supported  in  a  sling,  was  almost  the 
last  member  of  the  house-party  to  appear  in  the  breakfast 
room.  Most  of  the  women  wore  habits.  The  weather  was 
propitious  and  all  the  company  were  in  high  spirits  with  the 
prospect  of  a  good  run.  Satterlee  alone  of  all  the  men  was 
not  dressed  for  hunting,  having  donned  a  becoming  golf- 
suit.  Middleton,  who  had  brought  his  own  horses  down 
with  him,  was  eagerly  talking  horses  and  hounds  with  Fred 
Galloway. 

Satterlee  was  in  a  somewhat  dismal  humor,  which  he 
cleverly  turned  to  good  account  by  telling  everyone  it  was 
because  he  couldn't  ride.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  shuddered 
to  think  of  the  opportunities  Middleton  might  have  out  hunt- 
ing to  say  sweet  nothings  to  Diana.  Great  was  his  sur- 
prise and  delight,  therefore,  when  that  fair  sportswoman 
came  down,  attired,  not  in  a  riding-habit,  but  in  a  long  driv- 
ing coat,  and  informed  him  very  graciously  that  she  was  not 
going  to  ride,  as  her  favorite  hunter  was  lame,  and  that  she 
would  be  glad  to  drive  Mr.  Satterlee  to  the  meet  if  he 
wished. 

"  Just  to  nee  them  '  throw  off,'  you  know,"  she  said,  with 
a  smile  and  a  flash  of  her  beautiful  eyes. 

Satterlee  was  beside  himself  with  delight.  Indeed,  so 
elated  was  he  that  he  could  scarcely  eat  any  breakfast,  and 
to  save  himself  he  could  not  but  dart  one  or  two  triumphant 
glances  at  Middleton. 

Presently  there  was  a  great  bustle  in  the  breakfast  room, 
and  eager  sportsmen  and  sportswomen  started  out  to  look 


70  WERNER'S  READINGS 

up  their  horses,  which  were  being  walked  to  and  fro  on  the 
lawn.  The  hounds  in  charge  of  the  huntsmen  were  already 
on  the  way  to  the  covert,  where  a  fox  was  reported  to  be  in 
hiding.  Soon  the  whole  field  was  astir,  and  Miss  Halliday 
sent  for  her  horse. 

Satterlee's  heart  sank  within  him,  as  he  saw,  instead  of  a 
lazy  pony,  a  restless  young  thoroughbred  between  the  shafts 
of  a  light  game-cart,  being  led  around  to  the  door  by  a 
groom.  Higgins,  the  coachman,  had  also  accompanied  the 
trap  to  the  door,  and  Satterlee  noted  with  a  tremor  the  evi- 
dent anxiety  in  Higgins's  face.  There  was  none  in  Miss 
Halliday's,  however,  as  she  stepped  lightly  into  the  cart  and 
gathered  up  her  reins,  motioning  Satterlee  to  follow.  Just 
as  he  did  so  the  horse,  a  handsome  bay,  reared  violently,  in 
spite  of  the  efforts  of  both  of  the  men  to  keep  him  down. 
Miss  Halliday  treated  him  to  a  cut  from  her  whip,  which 
only  had  the  effect  of  making  him  rear  again;  then,  as  he 
lowered  his  head,  she  called  to  the  men  to  stand  clear,  and 
away  they  bowled  down  the  drive  at  a  pace  that  made  Satter- 
lee cling  to  the  side  of  the  cart  and  hold  his  breath  in  trepi- 
dation. 

"'  You  see,"  explained  Miss  Halliday,  coolly,  "  he  has  only 
been  in  harness  once  before.  Steady,  my  boy;  steady, 
Rocket." 

Satterlee  gasped.  So  his  name  was  Rocket.  A  very  ap- 
propriate one,  too,  he  thought.  He  wondered  how  long  it 
would  be  before  he  went  off. 

They  soon  caught  up  with  the  hounds  and  the  horsemen, 
and  Miss  Halliday  managed  to  curb  Rocket's  ardent  en- 
thusiasm sufficiently  to  keep  him  in  the  rear. 

"  Look  at  the  darling,"  she  exclaimed,  rapturously,  "  how 
he  watches  the  hounds.  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  he 
wanted  to  follow  them." 

Such,  indeed,  proved  to  be  the  case.  No  sooner  had  the 
hounds  been  thrown  into  covert  than  Rocket  began  to  display 
unmistakable  signs  of  restlessness,  standing  on  his  hind  legs 
at  one  moment,  lashing  out  vigorously  with  them  the  next, 
and  at  other  times  dancing  gaily  with  all  four  feet  at  once. 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22.  71 

Satterlee,  trembling  in  every  limb,  wished  himself  back  at 
Halliday  Hall — at  his  club — anywhere  but  where  he  was. 
Presently  a  shout  was  heard.  The  fox  had  broken  cover,  and 
the  apparently  listless  band  of  horsemen  settled  themselves 
in  the  saddle  and  started  off. 

Meanwhile,  Rocket,  with  two  men  hanging  on  to  his 
bridle,  was  making  violent  efforts  to  throw  himself  over 
backward,  while  Satterlee  was  vainly  imploring  Miss  Halli- 
day to  get  out  and  save  her  life.  She  paid  not  the  slightest 
attention  to  him.  She  took  a  firmer  hold  of  the  reins  and 
called  "  Let  go  "  to  the  two  onlookers  who  had  rushed  to  her 
assistance.  With  his  head  free,  and  encouraged  by  a  light 
touch  of  the  whip,  Rocket  sped  along  at  a  full  gallop  across 
the  field,  not  far  behind  the  horsemen. 

Miss  Halliday's  eyes  were  glowing. 

"  Hurrah!  "  she  cried;   "  we  will  have  a  run  after  all." 

Fortunately,  the  field  was  a  large  one,  but  Satterlee's 
anxious  eyes  could  see  no  way  out  of  it.  Hounds  were  run- 
ning at  least  three  fields  away,  but  the  main  body  of  horse- 
men were  just  clearing  a  low  stone  wall  at  the  farther  side 
of  the  field. 

"Good,"  cried  Miss  Halliday;  "there's  a  gate,"  as  stout 
old  Henderson,  who  never  was  known  to  jump,  managed 
to  pull  it  open  with  his  hunting  crop.  Seeing  Miss  Halliday 
and  her  galloping  horse,  he  had  just  time  to  pull  it  wide  open 
as  Rocket  galloped  madly  through,  bumping  the  right  wheel 
box  severely  on  the  gate-post.  Satterlee  sat  muddled  up  in 
a  heap,  holding  on  frantically  to  the  cart. 

They  were  now  in  the  midst  of  the  horsemen,  and  going 
hard.  Suddenly  a  narrow  brook  loomed  up  before  them, 
and  several  riders  came  to  grief. 

"  I  wonder  if  the  cart  will  get  over  ?  "  mused  Miss  Halli- 
day. 

Satterlee  did  not  feel  that  his  opinion  would  matter. 

Miss  Halliday  applied  her  whip,  which  had  the  effect  of  in- 
creasing Rocket's  speed  considerably.  He  jumped,  swish — 
there  was  a  splash — then  a  jar  which  Satterlee  thought 
would  smash  the  cart  to  atoms- — and  they  had  cleared  it. 


?S  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"  Good  boy,  Rocket,"  cried  Miss  Halliday,  encouragingly. 
"  Steady,  my  boy." 

Satterlee  had  long  since  abandoned  hope  and  resigned  him- 
self to  silence  and  his  fate.  He  gripped  the  side  of  the  cart 
determinedly,  a  hard,  set  look  on  his  pale  face.  The  pace 
was  getting  faster  and  faster,  and  many  of  the  horsemen 
were  dropping  behind.  Now  a  light  post  and  rail  fence 
loomed  up,  leading  out  into  the  road.  One  by  one  the  horse- 
men, led  by  the  huntsman,  popped  lightly  over  it. 

"  It  looks  pretty  rotten,"  said  Miss  Halliday,  cheerfully, 
and  Satterlee  closed  his  eyes. 

Smash,  bang!  Splinters  flew  in  every  direction  and 
somehow  or  other  they  had  gotten  through  it — Heaven 
knows  how — and  were  galloping  along  a  soft  country  road. 

By  great  good  luck  the  hounds,  who  were  now  closing 
rapidly  upon  their  fox,  had  taken  the  same  line  and  Satterlee 
breathed  a  shade  easier. 

"  Hurrah !  "  cried  Miss  Halliday,  looking  around,  "  we 
are  leading  the  field." 

True  enough  the  hounds  had  made  a  turn,  which  gave 
them  an  advantage  over  the  horsemen.  Now  they  were  al- 
most with  the  hounds,  who  were  running  in  the  field  near  the 
road,  and  Miss  Halliday  was  standing  up  in  the  cart  and 
cheering  them.  Rocket — big,  slashing  fellow  that  he  was — 
began  to  show  signs  of  fatigue,  but  still  kept  up  a  fast 
pace. 

"  They're  turning,"  cried  Miss  Halliday,  as  she  pulled 
Rocket  around  sharply  and  entered  a  field  through  a  gap  in 
the  fence.  "  There  he  goes — there's  the  fox.  Don't  you  see 
him  ?  "  she  cried,  excitedly. 

Away  they  went,  bumping  over  tufts  of  grass,  stones,  and 
stumps  of  trees.  Now  a  hedge  with  a  small  ditch  presented 
itself  and  was  negotiated  in  some  miraculous  way. 

They  were  now  in  the  same  field  with  the  hounds  and  rey- 
nard  was  only  a  few  yards  ahead  of  them.  The  horsemen, 
who  had  lost  ground  by  the  turning  of  the  scent,  were  gain- 
ing on  them  rapidly. 

"  They  will  kill  him  in  a  minute.    Go  on,  Rocket,  go  on/' 


AND  RECITATIONS.  No.  22.  73 

cried  Miss  Halliday,  and  suddenly  they  came  upon  another 
post  and  rail  fence.    "  We'll  try  it,"  she  said,  composedly. 

Satterlee  closed  his  eyes.  There  was  a  shock,  a  tremen- 
dous jar,  and  he  felt  himself  flying  through  space.  Then 
came  unconsciousness. 

When  he  came  to,  he  found  himself  lying  in  the  bottom  of 
a  light  wagon,  being  driven  back  to  Halliday  Hall. 

"  Where — where  is  Miss  Halliday?  "  he  asked,  in  a  con- 
fused way.    "  Was  she  very  much  hurt  ?  " 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,  old  man,"  promptly  returned  Tom  With- 
ers, a  fellow-guest  at  Halliday  Hall.  "  Far  from  it.  She 
was  given  the  brush,  and  is  being  driven  home  by  Dick  Mid- 
dleton,  not  a  bit  the  worse  for  her  adventure." 

At  Halliday  Hall  that  night  an  important  announcement 
was  made — the  engagement  of  Miss  Diana  Halliday  to 
Dick  Middleton,  and  Percival  Satterlee  was  the  first  to  con- 
gratulate the  lucky  man. 


A  BRIEF  BURLESQUE. 


[Prom  Munsey's  Magazine,  by  permission  of  Frank  A.  Mua»jr.J 

She.  You  love  me? 

He.  Aye,  I  do  indeed! 

He.     How  can  I  prove  it  ? 

She.  Is  there  need  ? 

He.     Nay,  not  for  some,  but  you  are  cold. 

Ah,  would  our  life  were  that  of  old, 

That  I  might  prove,  by  feat  of  arms, 

My  wish  to  shield  you  from  all  harms ! 

As  knight  of  thine  I  could  not  fail. 
She.  There's  safety  in  a  coat  of  mail. 
He.     True,  so  there  is ;  but  take  the  case 

Of  Orpheus — give  to  me  his  place; 

For  Orpheus  left  this  world  above. 

At  Pluto's  throne  he  showed  his  love— • 
She.  But  that's  mythology,  you  know — 
He.     To  Pluto  would  I  go  to  show — 


74  WERNER'S  READINGS 

She.  Ah,  thanks;   but  is  it  just  to  trace 
Comparisons  between  his  Grace 
Of  the  Inferno  and  mon  peref 
You'd  hardly  find  the  latter  there; 
But  in  that  room  with  door  ajar 
You'll  see  him  deep  in  his  cigar, 
^  Which  after-dinner  smoke,  I  find, 
Brings  him  a  happy  frame  of  mind. 
Go  to  him,  therefore,  and  confess, 
Then  I  am  yours  if  he  says  "  yes." 
[She  watches  him  as  he  hurries  away.] 
Poor  boy !     Without  a  single  cent 
Upon  an  empty  errand  bent! 


A  RACE  FOR  LIFE. 


J.    FENIMORE    COOPER. 


Arranged  from  "The  Last  of  the  Mohicans. 

[The  scene  of  this  story  is  laid  in  the  camp  of  the  Huron  Indians  iff 
1757.  The  principal  character  is  Uncas,  a  young  Delaware  chief,  who 
has  been  trapped  and  captured  by  his  enemies.  Duncan,  an  English- 
man, the  friend  of  Uncas,  has  come  to  the  Huron  "camp  disguised  as  a 
medicine-man,  and  is  in  the  tent  of  the  chief  warrior.] 

A  T  that  moment  a  low  but  fearful  sound  arose  from  the 
■**■  forest,  and  was  immediately  succeeded  by  a  high,  shrill 
yell.  The  sudden  and  terrible  interruption  caused  Duncan 
to  start  from  his  seat,  unconscious  of  everything  but  the  ef- 
fect produced  by  so  horrible  a  cry.  The  warriors  glided  in 
a  body  from  the  lodge,  and  the  outer  air  was  filled  with 
shouts.  Men,  women  and  children,  the  aged,  the  infirm,  the 
active  and  the  strong,  were  alike  abroad;  some  exclaiming 
aloud,  others  clapping  their  hands  with  a  joy  that  seemed 
frantic,  and  all  expressing  their  savage  pleasure  in  some  un- 
expected event. 

When  at  the  distance  of  a  few  hundred  feet  from  the 
lodges,  they  halted.    One  of  their  number  now  called  aloud. 


rAND  RECITATIONS,  No.  22.  75 

'  ft 

It  would  be  difficult  to  convey  a  suitable  idea  of  the  savage 
ecstasy  with  which  the  news,  thus  imparted,  was  received. 

The  whole  encampment  in  a  moment  became  the  scene  of 
the  most  violent  bustle  and  commotion.  The  warriors  drew 
their  knive's  and,  flourishing  them,  arranged  themselves  in 
two  lines,  forming  a  lane  that  extended  from  the  war-party 
to  the  lodges.  The  squaws  seized  clubs,  axes,  or  whatever 
weapon  of  offense  first  offered  itself  to  their  hands,  and 
rushed  eagerly  to  act  their  part  in  the, cruel  game.  Even 
the  children  would  not  be  excluded;  but  boys,  little  able  to 
wield  the  instruments,  tore  the  tomahawks  from  the  belts  of 
their  fathers  and  stole  into  the  ranks,  apt  imitators  of  the 
savage  traits  exhibited  by  their  parents. 

Large  piles  of  brush  lay  scattered  about  the  clearing,  and 
a  wary  and  aged  squaw  was  occupied  in  firing  as  many  as 
might  serve  to  light  the  coming  exhibition.  The  whole  scene 
formed  a  striking  picture,  whose  frame  was  composed  by  the 
dark  and  tall  border  of  pines.  The  warriors  just  arrived 
were  the  most  distant  figures.  A  little  in  advance  stood  a 
man,  the  principal  actor  in  what  was  to  follow.  The  light 
was  not  strong  enough  to  render  his  features  distinct,  but 
he  stood  erect  and  firm,  prepared  to  meet  his  fate  like  a 
hero.  The  high-spirited  Duncan  felt  a  powerful  impulse  of 
admiration  and  pity  toward  him.  He  watched  his  slightest 
movement  with  eager  eyes ;  and,  as  he  traced  the  fine  outline 
of  his  active  frame,  he  endeavored  to  persuade  himself  that 
if  the  powers  of  man,  seconded  by  such  noble  resolution, 
could  bear  one  harmless  through  so  severe  a  trial,  the  youth- 
ful captive  before  him  might  hope  for  success  in  the  hazard- 
ous race  he  was  about  to  run.  Just  then  the  signal  yell  was 
given,  and  the  momentary  quiet  that  had  preceded  it  was 
broken  by  a  burst  of  cries  that  far  exceeded  any  before 
heard.  The  victim  bounded  from  the  place  at  the  cry,  with 
the  activity  and  swiftness  of  a  deer.  Instead  of  rushing 
through  the  hostile  lines  as  had  been  expected,  he  just  en- 
tered the  dangerous  defile,  and  before  time  was  given  for  a 
single  blow,  turned  short  and,  leaping  the  heads  of  a  row  of 
children,  he  gained  at  once  the  exterior  and  safer  side  of 


76  WERNER'S  READINGS 

the  formidable  array.  The  artifice  was  answered  by  a  hun- 
dred voices  raised  in  imprecations;  and  the  whole  excited 
multitude  broke  from  their  order,  and  spread  themselves 
about  the  place  in  wild  confusion. 

It  will  easily  be  understood  that  amid  such  a  concourse 
of  vindictive  enemies  no  breathing-time  was  allowed  the 
fugitive.  There  was  a  single  moment  when  it  seemed  as  if 
he  would  reach  the  forest,  but  the  whole  body  of  his  captors 
threw  themselves  before  him,  and  drove  him  back  into  the 
centre  of  his  relentless  persecutors.  Turning  like  a  headed 
deer,  he  shot  with  the  swiftness  of  an  arrow  through  a  pillar 
of  forked  flame,  and,  passing  the  whole  multitude  harmless, 
he  appeared  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  clearing.  Here,  too, 
he  was  met  and  turned  by  a  few  of  the  older  and  more  subtle 
of  the  Hurons.  Once  more  he  tried  the  throng,  as  if  seeking 
safety  in  its  blindness,  and  then  several  moments  succeeded, 
during  which  Duncan  believed  the  active  and  courageous 
young  stranger  was  lost. 

Nothing  could  be  distinguished  but  a  dark  mass  of  human 
forms,  tossed  and  involved  in  inexplicable  confusion.  Arms, 
gleaming  knives,  and  formidable  clubs  appeared  above  them, 
but  the  blows  were  evidently  given  at  random.  The  awful 
effect  was  heightened  by  the  piercing  shrieks  of  the  women, 
and  the  fierce  yells  of  the  warriors.  Now  and  then  Duncan 
caught  a  glimpse  of  a  light  form  cleaving  the  air  in  some  des- 
perate bound,  and  he  rather  hoped  than  believed  that  the  cap- 
tive yet  retained  command  of  his  wonderful  powers  of 
activity.  Suddenly  the  multitude  rolled  backward  and  ap- 
proached the  spot  where  he  himself  stood.  The  heavy  body 
in  the  rear  pressed  upon  the  women  and  the  children  in  front 
and  bore  them  to  the  earth.  The  stranger  reappeared  in  the 
confusion. 

Human  power  could  not,  however,  much  longer  endure 
so  severe  a  trial.  Of  this  the  captive  seemed  conscious. 
Profiting  by  the  momentary  opening,  he  darted  from  among 
the  warriors,  and  made  a  desperate  and,  what  seemed  to 
Duncan,  a  final  effort  to  gain  the  wood.  As  if  aware  that  no 
danger  was  to  be  apprehended  from  the  young  soldier,  the 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  32.  77 

fugitive  nearly  brushed  his  person  in  his  flight.  A  tall  and 
powerful  Huron,  who  had  husbanded  his  forces,  pressed 
close  upon  his  heels,  and  with  uplifted  arm  menaced  a  fatal 
blow.  Duncan  thrust  forth  a  foot,  and  the  shock  precipitated 
the  eager  savage  headlong,  many  feet  in  advance  of  his  in- 
tended victim.  Thought  itself  is  not  quicker  than  was  the 
motion  with  which  the  latter  profited  by  the  advantage;  he 
turned,  gleamed  like  a  meteor  again  before  the  eyes  of  Dun- 
can and,  at  the  next  moment,  was  leaning  against  a  small 
painted  post  that  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  camp, — safe  by 
the  rules  of  Indian  warfare. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  SHREWSBURY. 


ELBRIDGE  S.  BROOKS. 


[Arranged  from  "  Harry  of  Monmouth,"  by  permission  of  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons, 

publishers.] 

T  T  is  the  morning  of  Saturday,  the  twenty-second  of  July, 
*  1403.  The  camps  of  the  Percies  and  of  King  Henry  of 
England  are  astir,  and  in  the  gray  light  that  precedes  the 
dawn  the  preparation  for  battle  is  made.  The  sun  lights  up 
the  alder-covered  hills,  the  trumpet  sounds  to  arms,  the 
standards  sway,  the  burnished  armor  gleams  and  rings  as 
knights  and  squires  fall  into  their  appointed  places,  the  cloth- 
yard  shafts  are  fitted  to  the  archers'  bows,  and  then,  up  from 
a  sloping  field,  sweet  with  the  odor  of  the  pea-blossoms  that 
cover  it,  there  comes  in  loud  defiance  the  well-known  war- 
cry  of  the  Percies :  "  Esperance!  esperanee!  Percy,  ho!  A 
Percy!"  and  Hotspur  with  his  Northumbrian  archers  sweeps 
to  the  attack  amid  a  terrible  flight  of  arrows  and  spears. 

"Play  up,  sir  trumpeter !"  shouted  Harry  of  Monmouth, 
rising  in  his  stirrups.  "  Play  up  your  answering  blast.  Shake 
out  our  standard  free.  Now,  forward,  all !  Death  to  traitors ! 
St.  George!  St.  George  for  England!  " 

"  St.  George  for  England !"  came  the  answering  echo 
from  King  Henry's  line ;  "  Esperance,   Percy !  "   sounded 


78  WERNER'S  READINGS 

again  from  the  rebel  ranks,  and  "  in  a  place  called  Bullfield  " 
both  armies  closed  in  conflict. 

"  So  furiously  the  armies  joined,"  runs  the  old  chronicle, 
"  the  arrows  fell  as  fall  the  leaves  on  the  ground  after  a 
frosty  night  at  the  approach  of  winter.  There  was  no  room 
for  the  arrows  to  reach  the  ground ;  every  one  struck  a  mor- 
tal man." 

The  first  attack  was  against  the  King's  own  ranks.  Hot- 
spur, with  his  Northumbrian  arrows,  and  Douglas,  with  his 
Highland  spears,  pressed  hotly  upon  them;  while  Worces- 
ter's Cheshire  archers  from  a  slope  near  by  sent  their  whiz- 
zing messengers  straight  into  the  King's  lines.  Though  an- 
swering valiantly,  the  terrible  assault  was  too  severe  for  the 
King's  men.  They  wavered,  staggered,  swayed,  and  broke. 
A  ringing  cheer  went  up  from  the  enemy,  when,  just  at  the 
critical  moment,  with  an  "  indignant  onset,"  Harry  of  Mon- 
mouth dashed  to  his  father's  aid.  His  resistless  rush 
changed  the  tide  of  battle,  and  the  King's  line  was  saved. 

A  sorry  record  is  the  story  of  that  fearful  fight.  For  three 
long  hours  the  battle  raged  from  Haughmond  Abbey  on  to 
Berwick  Bridge,  and  ere  the  noon  of  that  bloody  day,  twelve 
thousand  valiant  Englishmen  fell  on  the  fatal  field. 

The  fire  of  passion  and  fight  spread  even  to  the  youngest 
page  and  squire,  and  Lionel,  the  playmate  of  Prince  Harry, 
pressed  close  after  the  <0  gilded  helmet  and  the  three-plumed 
crest  "  of  his  brilliant  young  Prince,  his  face  flamed  with  the 
excitement  of  the  battle-hour.  Again  and  again  he  saw  the 
King  unhorsed  and  fighting  desperately  for  his  crown  and 
life ;  again  and  again  he  saw  the  fiery  Hotspur  and  Douglas 
the  Scot  charge  furiously  on  the  King  they  had  sworn  to  kill. 
Backward  and  forward  the  tide  of  battle  rolls ;  now  royalist, 
now  rebel,  seems  the  victor.  Hark !  what  shout  is  that  ? 

"  The  King,  the  King  is  down !  " 

Where  Hotspur  and  the  Douglas  fight  around  the  hillock 
now  known  as  the  "  King's  Croft,"  Lionel  misses  the  golden 
crest,  he  misses  the  royal  banner  of  England. 

"  Sir  Walter  Blount  is  killed !  The  standard  is  lost !  "  is 
now  the  sorry  cry. 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.' 22.  79 


But  now  the  Prince  and  his  hardy  Welsh  fighters  charge 
to  the  rescue,  and  Lionel  gave  a  cry  of  terror,  as  he  saw  a 
whizzing  arrow  tear  into  the  face  of  his  beloved  Prince. 
Young  Harry  reeled  with  his  hurt,  and  Lionel  with  other 
gentlemen  of  the  guard  caught  him  in  their  arms.  There 
was  confusion  and  dismay. 

"  The  Prince  is  hurt !  "  cried  Lionel,  and  almost  as  an  echo 
rose  those  other  shouts : 
<"' The  King  is  slain!" 

"  Long  live  the  Percy !  " 

"  Back,  to  the  rear,  my  lord !  "  pleaded  Lionel,  as  he 
wiped  the  blood  from  the  fair  young  face  of  the  Prince. 

"  Back,  back,  my  lord  Prince.  Back  to  my  tent,"  urged 
the  Earl  of  Westmoreland,  and  "  Back,  back,  while  there  is 
yet  safety,"  said  the  other  knights,  as  the  tide  of  battle 
surged  toward  the  bleeding  prince. 

"  Stand  off!  "  cried  young  Harry,  springing  to  his  feet. 
"  Stand  off,  my  lords !  Far  be  from  me  such  disgrace  as  that, 
like  a  poltroon,  I. should  stain  my  arms  by  flight.  If  the 
Prince  flies,  who  will  wait  to  end  the  battle?  " 

Just  then  another  shout  arose — a  joyous,  ringing  cry : 

"  Ho,  the  King  lives!  The  standard  is  safe!^  St.  George 
for  England ! " 

The  brave  young  Harry,  turning  to  his  guard,  said : 

"  What,  my  lords,  to  be  carried  back  before  the  victory? 
Lead  me,  I  implore  you,  to  the  very  face  of  the  foe." 

Then,  as  the  royal  standard  waved  once  more  aloft,  he 
burst  with  his  followers  into  the  thick  of  the  fight,  his  un- 
yielding valor  giving  new  strength  to  all. 

And  now  the  end  is  near.  An  archer's  arrow,  with  un- 
erring aim,  pierces  the  valiant  Hotspur,  and  he  falls  dead 
upon  the  field. 

"  Harry  Percy  is  dead !  Victory !  victory !  St.  George  and 
victory !  "  rings  the  cry  from  thousands  of  the  loyal  troops, 
and,  like  a  whirlwind,  a  panic  of  fear  seizes  the  rebel  ranks. 
Douglas  is  a  prisoner ;  the  Earl  of  Worcester  surrenders ;  the 
rout  is  general. 

So  ended  the  "  sad  and  sorry  field  of  Shrewsbury," — a  fit- 


80  WERNER'S  READINGS 

ting  prelude  to  that  bloody  era  of  strife  known  as  the  "  Wars 
of  the  Roses,"  which,  commencing  in  the  said  reign  of  the 
son  of  this  boy-general,  Harry  of  Monmouth,  was  to  stain 
England  with  the  blood- of  Englishmen  through  thirty  years. 


OVER  THE  HILL. 


E.    H.    HASTINGS. 


A  LL  around  our  house,  up  adainst  the  sky, 
•**     There's  dreat  bid  hills,  oh,  ever  so  high ! 
An'  mamma  says,  over  apast  the  hills, 
There's  houses,  an'  peoples,  'z  far  'z  you  can  see ; 
An'  dear  little  childrens  there,  just  like  me. 
I  never  been  over  the  hill — I  want  to  do  over  the  hill. 
Last  summer  a  dear  little  bird  built  its  house 

In  our  apple-tree,  an',  'z  still  'z  a  mouse, 

It  sat  till  the  wee  little  birdies  peeped  out. 

Then  the  mamma  bird  fed  them  until  they  all  drew 

So  bid  an'  so  stron'  they  evvy  one  flew 

Away,  right  over  the  hill — I  never  been  over  the  hill. 

So  then  I  fought  I  would  do  over  the  hill, 

An'  I  crept  out  the  door,  dust  as  still,  dust  as  still ; 

An'  I  walked,  an'  I  walked,  an'  I  walked,  an'  I  walked ! 

Till  my  foots  doubled  up,  an'  I  dust  couldn't  do ; 

An'  my  papa  came  an'  f  oun'  me,  an'  so 

I  never  been  over  the  hill — I  want  to  do  over  the  hill. 

But  I  am  drowin'  'z  fast  'z  I  can, 

An'  pretty  soon  I  shall  be  a  dreat  man, 

As  bid  as  my  papa  or  Uncle  Dosiah ; 

'Nen  I'll  buy  me  a  dreat  bid  shiny  hat, 

An'  a  watch  that  does  "  tick,  tock,"  like  that; 

An'  nen  I'll  do  over  the  hill — I  dust  will  do  over  the  hill ! 


AND.  RECITATIONS,  No.  22.  81 

ELIJAH  BROWN. 


ELIJAH  BROWN,  the  cobbler,   was  enamored  of  the 

*-*'     muse, 

And  all  his  time  was  given  up  to  stanzas  and  to  shoes. 

He  scorned  to  live  a  tuneless  life,  ingloriously  mute, 

And  nightly  laid  his  last  aside  to  labor  at  his  lute ; 

For  he  had  registered  an  oath  that  lyrical  renown 

Should  trumpet  to  the  universe  the  worthy  name  of  Brown, 

And,  though  his  own  weak  pinions  failed  to  reach  the  heights 

of  song, 
His  genius  hatched  a  brilliant  scheme  to  help  his  oath  along; 
And  all  his  little  youngsters,  as  they  numerously  came, 
He  christened  after  poets  in  the  pantheon  of  fame, 
That  their  poetic  prestige  might  impress  them,  and  inspire 
A  noble  emulation  to  adopt  the  warbling  lyre. 
And  Virgil  Brown  and  Dante  Brown  and  Tasso  Brown  ap- 
peared, 
And  Milton  Brown  and  Byron  Brown  and  Shakespeare 

Brown  were  reared, 
Longfellow  Brown  and  Schiller  Brown  arrived  at  man's 

estate, 
And  Wordsworth  Brown  and  Goldsmith  Brown  made  up  the 

family  slate, 
And  he  believed  his  gifted  boys,  predestined  to  renown, 
In  time  would  roll  the  boulder  from  the.  buried  name  of 

Brown. 
But  still  the  epic  is  unsung,  and  still  that  worthy  name 
Is  missing  from  the  pedestals  upon  the  hills  of  fame ; 
For  Dante  Brown's  a  peddler  in  the  vegetable  line, 
And  Byron  Brown  is  pitching  for  the  Tuscarora  nine ; 
Longfellow  Brown,  the  lightweight,  is  a  pugilist  of  note, 
And  Goldsmith  Brown's  a  deck-hand  on  a  Jersey  ferry- 
boat. 
In  Wordsworth  Brown  Manhattan  has  an  estimable  cop, 
And  Schiller  Brown's  an  artist  in  a  Brooklyn  barber  shop. 


82  WERNER'S  READINGS 

A  roving  tar  is  Virgil  Brown  upon  the  bounding  seas, 
And  Tasso  Brown  is  usefully  engaged  in  making  cheese. 
The  cobbler's  bench  is  Milton  Brown's,  and  there  he  pegs 

away, 
And  Shakespeare  Brown  makes  cocktails  in  a  Cripple  Creek 

cafe! 


o- 


"  BUD'S  CHARGE." 


LOUIS   E.    VAN    NORMAN. 


[Prom  The  Voice,  by  permission  of  the  author.] 

DUD  was  the  blackest,  fattest,  and  most  contented  little 
*-*  darkey  I  ever  saw.  "  Mars  "  Rickaby  and  Missis  and 
Miss  Lilian  were  the  kindest  people  in  the  world  to  him. 

Edward  Rickaby  was  a  rich  plantation  owner,  a  colonel  in 
the  Confederate  army,  and  a  typical  Southern  gentleman. 
And  Lilian !  She  was  a  little  golden-haired,  blue-eyed  fairy 
of  ten,  the  idol  of  her  parents,  and  the  object  of  almost  reli- 
gious reverence  on  the  part  of  the  negroes.  A  delicate  and 
beautiful  little  creature  she  was.  As  Bud  put  it :  "  Miss  Lily, 
she  shuly  am  an  angel.  I  specs  to  see  de  wings  come  out 
'most  any  day."  He  himself  almost  literally  worshipped  her. 
At  the  time  of  my  story,  the  colonel  was  away  with  his  regi- 
ment in  Virginia,  under  the  great  Stonewall  Jackson, 
"  beatin'  de  Yanks  out  ob  deir  boots,"  according  to  Bud. 

It  was  a  mild,  quiet  day  in  the  first  part  of  April.  About 
eleven  o'clock  in  the  forenoon  firing  commenced  near  the  vil- 
lage. The  reports  of  the  great  guns  and  the  rattle  of  the 
musketry  echoed  and  reverberated, — now  loud  and  sharp,  as 
though  the  battle  swayed  nearer ;  now  dull  and  heavy,  as 
though  it  was  raging  down  at  the  river's  bank,  where  the 
gunboats  would  chime  in  with  their  deep  roar.  The  negro 
hands  on  the  Rickaby  plantation  had  collected  in  the  great 
hall  of  the  mansion,  anxiously  waiting  for  the  return  of  Mrs. 
Rickaby,  who  was  visiting  a  sick  friend  eight  or  ten  miles 
away.  Old  Joe,  who  acted  as  a  sort  of  superintendent  on  the 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22.  83 

plantation,  was  becoming  almost  helpless  with  fear,  as  he 
heard  the  tide  of  battle  surge  nearer.  No  one  seemed  to 
know  just  what  to  do, — no  one  but  Bud.  To  him  had  been 
confided  the  care  of  Miss  Lilian. 

"  Don't  let  any  harm  come  to  Lilian,  Bud, '/Mrs.  Rickaby 
had  said  before  leaving,  and  the  little  fellow's  heart  had 
swelled  almost  io  bursting  with  delight  at  this  confidence  re- 
posed in  him. 

While  the  other  and  older  negroes  were  quaking  with  fear 
in  the  great  hall.  Bud  was  parading  up  and  down  the  broad 
piazza,  as  a  sentry,  his  small  step  invested  with  all  the  dig- 
nity of  the  guard  of  an  emperor.  Inside  the  parlor,  Lily 
played  and  was  happy,  only  now  and  then  peeping  out  of  the 
great  oaken  door  and  calling  to  Bud  in  her  silvery  voice: 

"  Is  mama  come  yet  ?  " 

Bud,  stopping  in  his  march  to  salute  her  as  though  she 
were  a  queen  and  he  chief  of  body-guard,  would  answer : 

"  No,  Miss  Lily,  not  yet.  But  yo'  needn't  fear,  'deed  yo' 
needn't.  Ef  dem  Yanks  come  heah,  I'll  pertect  yo.'  Don't 
yo'  be  afraid,  Miss  Lily." 

Then  Lily  would  go  back  to  her  play  and  Bud  to  his  faith- 
ful tramp  again. 

It  was  now  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  for  the  last 
hour  or  so  the  fire  had  gradually  slackened  until  it  had  al- 
most entirely  ceased.  The  poor  blacks  were  commencing  to 
pick  up  courage  again.  But  all  at  once  Bud  thought  he  heard 
drums  in  the  distance.   He  began  to  grow  uneasy. 

"  Ef  dem  Yanks  do  come,"  he  muttered,  "  dose  niggers'll 
run.  I  know  dey  will.  An'  mebbe  I  couldn't  get  away  wif  a 
hull  lot  ob  Yanks." 

Away  up  the  wide  road  a  great  cloud  of  yellow,  dust  soon 
appeared,  a  cloud  through  which  gleamed  bright  steel  points. 
Then  one  could  see  the  troops  on  their  march.  A  dark  figure 
flew  past  Bud,  and  then  another  and  another.  Ah,  Bud;' 
"  dose  niggers  "  are  indeed  running  away.  Soon  he  "felt 
rather  than  saw  that  they  all  had  fled.  Then  he  went  inside, 
barred  the  great  oak  doors  and  windows,  and  barricaded 
them  with  large  chests,  chairs, — anything  not  too  heavy  for 


84  WERNER'S  READINGS. 

him  to  move,  stationing  Lily  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  and 
himself  as  near  the  door  as  he  could  get,  to  listen.  Nearly 
ten  minutes  passed.  Then  he  could  see  men  in  blue  uniforms 
swarming  over  the  grounds.  Heavens !  they  surrounded  the 
house !  Presently  there  came  a  thundering  blow  at  the  door. 

'"  Let  us  in ;  we  won't  hurt  you,  but  we  must  have  some- 
thing to  eat,"  the  "  must "  emphasized  by  another  crash  on 
the  oaken  panels,  as  though  the  butt-end  of  a  heavy  musket 
had  been  driven  against  them  with  tremendous  force. 

Bud  gathered  up  his  small  strength  and  said — he  tried  to 
say  it  gruffly  and  impressively : 

"  Dis  am  Kunnel  Rickaby's  place,  an'  he  am  away  to  de 
wah.  Yo'  can't  get  in  heah,  an'  yo'd  bettah  not  try." 

"  Don't  care  who  it  belongs  to.  Open  that  door !  We 
won't  hurt  you,  I  say.  If  you  don't  open  the  door  we'll  break 
it  in." 

Bud  did  not  answer  this  time.  Poor  little  fellow,  he  fully 
believed  that  if  the  "  Yanks  "  got  in  they  would  kill  his 
young  mistress  without  the  slightest  compunction.  So  he  did 
not  answer,  but  devoted  himself  to  trying  to  persuade  Lilian 
to  go  upstairs  and  lock  herself  in  one  of  the  bed-rooms. 

"  Fo'  de  Lawd's  sake.  Miss  Lily,"  he  said,  "  fo'  yo'  mam- 
my's sake,  go  up  to  dat  room.  Dey'll  kill  yo'  fo'  shuah,  ef  dey 
get  in.  Please,  Miss  Lily,  ef  ddy  done  kill  me  tain't  nothin'. 
I'se  only  a  po'  nigger,  but  yo' — Miss  Lily,  oh,  please  go." 
(He  was  almost  crying  now.)   "Go,  jess  fo'  Bud's  sake." 

But  Lily  would  not  move.  She  was  very  much  frightened, 
but  had  an  idea  that  she  shouldn't  leave  Bud  to  face  those 
awful  Yankees  alone.  So  the  two  waited  in  childish  terror. 

There  came  another  crash  against  the  door.  It  was  evi- 
dently yielding.  In  his  eager  haste  Bud  had  dragged  a  large, 
massive  ebony  case — it  was  a  wonder  he  had  been  able  to 
move  it  at  all— to  the  door.  It  was  so  heavy,  however,  that 
he  could  not  pull  it  far,  and  so  a  corner  just  touched  the  pan- 
els, and  the  great  mirror  on  top  was  bent  forward  at  a 
threatening  angle.  Under,  the  repeated  blows  the  door  shook 
and  strained.  Lily  was  too  near  that  door.  Bud  called  to  her 
to  come  nearer  the  centre  of  the  room.  Just  then  there  came 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22.  85 

a  tremendous  blow.  The  panel  gave  way,  the  massive  mir- 
ror tottered — and  Lily  right  beneath !  One  of  the  men  said 
afterward  that  through  the  broken  door  he  saw  the  figure  of 
a  beautiful  little  girl  with  golden  hair  and  the  falling  mirror. 
Then  a  small  black  figure  dashed  toward  the  door  and  pushed 
the  little  blue-eyed  fairy  back  into  the  room,  just  as  the  heavy 
wood  and  glass  "tame  crashing  down.  The  blue-coats  climbed 
through  the  shattered  door  and  slowly  lifted  the  heavy  piece 
of  furniture.  There  was  a  small,  limp  black  form  beneath. 
It  was  trying  to  speak.  One  of  the  big-hearted  troopers 
leaned  down  and  put  his  ear  to  the  poor  mouth..  It  was  gasp- 
ing painfully.  Little  Lily  kneeled  at  the  side  and  soaked  her 
small  handkerchief  in  the  crimson  stream  oozing  from  the 
poor  mangled  temples. 

"  Doan  cry — Miss  Lily,"  for  the  child  was  rocking  herself 
to  and  fro,  sobbing  frantically,  and  shrinking  for  fear  of  the 
soldiers,  who  were  vainly  endeavoring  to  pacify  her.  "  I — 
kep' — my  promise — Miss  Lily — I'm  goin' — but — I'm  only 
— a  po'  nigger — dey's  comin' — dey  is — angels — jess  like  yo' 
— Miss  Lily — I — "  but  the  poor  tongue  never  finished  that 
sentence,  for  the  life-blood  had  all  gone. 

Not  long  afterward  an  Ohio  regiment  fired  a  salute  over 
a  small  grave  near  the  turnpike  on  the  yellow  road.  The 
true-hearted  soldiers  honored  the  last  resting-place  of  a 
slave. 


IN  MAY. 


EDWIN    M.    STERN. 


T 


[By  permission  of  the  author  and  M.  Witmark  &  Sons,  publishers  of  the  song.] 

WO  lovers  were  strolling  in  May, 

In  May,  in  May; 
His  glance  full  of  joy  and  of  love, 
She  just  as  demure  as  a  dove. 
"  Oh,  will  you  be  mine,  dearest  May? 

Oh,  May!     Oh,  May! 


86  WERNER'S  READINGS     ~ 

i 

Dear  heart,  come,  have  no  fear, 
I'll  make  you  happy,  dear, 

In  May,  in  May."' 

She  loved  him  so  dearly,  did  May,  -  ■  . 

Did  May,  did  May ; 
Yet,  thinking  to  tease  him,  said :  "  Nay, 
You're  not  quite  my  style,  sir,  nay,  nay," 
And  laughingly  nodded  good  day, 

Good  day,  good  day ! 
"  If  you  should  come  you'll  find 
May  be  I'll  change  my  mind 

Next  May,  next  May." 

Twelve  months  past,  the  twain  met  one  day, 

In  May,  in  May. 
"  You  asked  me  a  question,"  said  May, 
"  You  surely  remember — last  May." 
He  looked  up  in  wonder  at  May, 

At  May,  at  May. 
"Have  you  not  heard,  my  dear, 
That  I  was  wed  last  year, 

In  May,  in  May?" 

Now,  girls,  take  example  from  May, 
Poor  May,  poor  May, 

And  if  he  e'er  asks  you,  I  pray, 

Do  hastily  answer  him  "  Aye," 

And  don't  put  him  off  till  next  May, 
Next  May,  next  May. 

In  his  arms  quickly  lurch, 

Say,  "  Love,  let's  go  to  church 
To-day,  in  May." 


'Twas  the  night  before  Christmas  and,  all  through  the  house, 
Not  a  creature  was  stirring,  not  even  a  mouse. 
And  this  was  the  reason,  no  cause  for  regret : 
The  house  was  a  damp  one.  and  labeled  "  To  Let." 


'AND.  RECITATIONS  No.  22.  $7 


GARFIELD. 


HON.  FRANK  FULLER 

"S/OU  all  have  seen  the  picture  of  that  wonderful  sculpture 
*  representing  the  giant  Atlas,  bearing  in  grand  equipoise 
the  world  upon  his  bowed  back.  Lo !  what  was  sometime  a 
fable  has  become  a  prophecy!  Ihave  delineated  before  you 
a  boy  who  was  carried  to  his  first  school  on  the  shoulders  of 
his  good  sister,  because  his  feet  were  shoeless;  a  lad  who 
chopped  wood  and  worked  at  the  carpenter's  bench  to  help 
his  mother;  a  youthful  rider  of  a  canal-boat  horse;  a  young 
student,  paying  his  expenses  by  lowly  offices,  working  his 
way  through  college  and  graduating  with  high  honor,  be- 
coming a  college  professor  and  a  president,  a  leading  lawyer, 
a  State  senator,  a  soldier,  a  brigadier-general,  a  major-gen- 
eral, a  representative  in  Congress,  a  United  States  senator, 
and,  finally,  president  of  the  grandest  republic  of  the  world ; 
a  poor,  barefoot  boy,  the  boy  of  the  log-cabin  and  the  log 
schoolhouse,  of  the  tow-path  and  the  carpenter's  bench,  ris- 
ing majestically  to  the  sublime  stature  of  a  grand,  symmet- 
rical, and  athletic  manhood,  who  by  the  simple  power  of  an 
honest  purpose  earnestly  pursued  at  last  balanced  the  world 
and  held  it  locked  in  equilibrium ! 

And  now,  what  is  the  lesson  of  this  symmetrical  life?  It 
is,  as  I  read  it,  unselfishness,  the  doing  of  right  because  it  is 
right,  regardless  of  its  effects  upon  personal  popularity,  upon 
future  hopes,  upon  present  fortunes.  I  know  how  excellent 
he  was  in  public  and  in  private  life.  His  life  before  the  world 
was  but  a  continuation  of  his  life  at  home  with  the  best  of 
mothers,  the  best  of  wives.  The  sweet  and  holy  influence  that 
he  carried  with  him  from  his  home  each  morning  abided  with 
him  till  his  return.  On  the  battle-field,  under  the  iron  rain 
and  kaden  hail  of  Middle  Creek,  through  the  insufferable 
and  lurid  hell  of  Chickamauga,  it  was  that  gentle  influence 
that  intensified  his  love  of  country  and  made  all  labor  and 
all  sacrifice  sweet.    It  was  the  mother-love  that  nerved  him 


88  WERNER'S  READINGS. 

for  duty  all  through  the  toil  and  struggles  of  boyhood,  amid 
his  laborious  student  life,  through  college,  to  the  professor's 
and  the  president's  chair,  and  when  to  this  was  added  the 
love  of  wife  and  children,  the  circle  was  rounded,  and  life  be- 
came a  thing  of  beauty.  Love  of  country,  love  of  family,  love 
of  duty, — these  three  carried  him  bravely  onward  to  ever 
higher  and  higher  endeavors,  to  ever  greater  and  greater 
honors.  At  last  he  stood  as  one  of  the  grandest  figures  in 
American  society.  To  me  who  watched  him  narrowly  for 
sixteen  years,  he  was  the  ideal  man,  the  ideal  statesman ;  as 
he  was  clearly  the  ideal  soldier  during  his  soldier  days.  To 
my  mind,  not  more  clearly  do  the  writings  of  Dante  signalize 
him  as  the  poet  ordained  by  high  Heaven  to  bridge  with  un- 
dying song  the  chasm  that  separates  the  middle  age  from 
modern  civilization ;  not  more  obviously  did  the  character  of 
Washington  denote  him  as  the  man  for  the  critical  period  in 
which  he  lived;  not  more  absolutely  did  the  peculiar  gifts, 
the  large  sincerity,  the  sterling  honesty,  the  childlike  sim- 
plicity, of  Abraham  Lincoln  establish  him  in  all  human 
hearts  as  the  one  man  on  earth  for  the  trying  events  of  his 
latest  years ;  than  the  mind,  the  manner,  the  physical  and  the 
spiritual  gifts,  the  sweet  sincerity,  the  boundless  generosity, 
the  frank  sunny-heartedness,  the  fervent  religious  faith,  the 
incorruptible  integrity,  of  James  A.  Garfield  proclaim  him 
in  his  day  and  generation  the  chief,  magistrate,  man  of 
America. 

And  if  you  and  I  have  learned  the  supreme  lesson  of  life, 
to  do  daily  and  reverently,  in  the  best  way,  the  nearest  duty, 
forgetful  of  self  and  mindful  only  of  our  responsibility  to 
God  and  to  our  fellow-men,  then  have  we  entered  into  the 
spirit,  and  caught  the  divine  impulse  that  actuated  the  life 
and  controlled  the  conduct  of  James  Abram  Garfield. 


Deep  in  each  artist's  soul  some  picture  lies 
That  he  will  never  paint  for  mortal  eyes ; 
And  every  author  in  his  heart  doth  hold 
Some  sad,  sweet  tale  that  he  will  leave  untold. 


'And.  recitations,  no,  22. 


CUPID'S  ALLEY. 


AUSTIN  DOBSON. 

C\  LOVE'S  but  a  dance 

Vr     Where  Time  plays  the  fiddle ! 

See  the  couples  advance ! 

O  Love's  but  a  dance! 

A  whisper,  a  glance, — 

"  Shall  we  twirl  down  the  middle?  * 
O  Love's  but  a  dance 

[Where  Time  plays  the  fiddle ! 

It  runs  (so  saith  my  chronicle) 

Across  a  smoky  city ; 
A  Babel  filled  with  buzz  and  whirr, 

Huge,  gloomy,  black  and  gritty ; 
Dark-lowring  looks  the  hillside  near, 

Dark-yawning  looks  the  valley, — ■ 
But  here  'tis  always  fresh  and  clear, 

For  here  is  Cupid's  Alley. 

And,  from  an  arbor  cool  and  green, 

With  aspect  down  the  middle, 
An  ancient  fiddler,  gray  and  lean, 

Scrapes  on  an  ancient  ■fiddle ; 
Alert  he  seems,  but  aged  enow 

To  punt  the  Stygian  galley ; 
With  wisp  of  forelock  on  his  brow, 

He  plays  in  Cupid's  Alley. 


And  here,  for  ages  yet  untold, 
Long,  long  before  my  ditty, 

Came  high  and  low  and  young  and  old, 
From  out  the  crowded  city ; 


9° 


WERNER'S  READINGS 

And  still  to-day  they  come,  they  go, 

And  just  as  fancies  tally, 
They  foot  it  quick,  they  foot  it  slow, 

All  day  in  Cupid's  Alley. 

Strange  pairs!  To  laughing,  fresh  Fifteen 

Here  capers  Prudence  thrifty ; 
Here  Prodigal  leads  down  the  green 

A  blushing  maid  of  fifty ; 
Some  treat  it  as  a  serious  thing, 

And  some  but  shilly-shally ; 
And  some  have  danced  without  the  ring 

(Ah,  me !)  in  Cupid's  Alley. 

And  sometimes  one  to  one  will  dance 

And  think  of  one  behind  her ; 
And  one  by  one  will  stand,  perchance, 

YeClook  all  ways  to  find  her. 
Some  seek  a  partner  with  a  sigh, 

Some  win  him  with  a  sally, 
And  some,  they  know  not  how  or  why; 

Strange  fate  of  Cupid's  Alley ! 

And  some  will  dance  an  age  or  so, 

Who  came  for  half  a  minute; 
And  some,  who  like  the  game,  will  go 

Before  they  well  begin  it ; 
And  some  will  vow  they're  "  danced  to  death, 

Who  (somehow)  always  rally; 
Strange  cures  are  wrought  (mine  author  saith) 

Strange  cures ! — in  Cupid's  Alley. 

For  till  that  city's  wheel-narls  vast 
And  shuddering  beams  shall  crumble, 

And  till  that  fiddler  lean  at  last 
From  off  his  seat  shall  tumble ; 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22. 

Till  then  (the  civic  records  say) 
This  quaint,  fantastic  ballet 

Of  go-and-stay,  of  yea  and  nay, 
Must  last  in  Cupid's  Alley. 


9i 


TARPBIA. 


LOUISE   IMOGEN   GUINEY. 


[From  Scribntr's  Magazine ;  by  permission  of  the  author  and  Charles  Scribner's 

Sons.] 

Revised  by  the  author,  especially  Jor  this  collection. 

\\T OE !  lightly  to  part  with  one's  soul  as  the  sea  with  his 
Y  "      foam ! 
Woe  to  Tarpeia,  Tarpeia,  daughter  of  Rome  1 

Lo!  now  it  was  night,  with  the  moon  looking  chill  as  she 

went; 
It  was  morn  when  the  innocent  stranger  strayed  into  the 

tent. 

The  hostile  Sabini  were  pleased,  as  one  meshing  a  bird ; 
She  sang  for  them  there  in  the  ambush ;  they  smiled  as  they 
heard. 

Her  sombre  hair  purpled  in  gleams  as  she  leaned  to  the 

light; 
All  day  she  had  idled  and  feasted,  and  now  it  was  night. 

The  chief  sat  apart,  heavy-browed,  brooding,  elbow  on  knee ; 
The  armlets  he  wore  were  a  wonder,  and  royal  to  see : 

Gold  spiral  and  coil,  and  the  glimmering  fringes  from  them 
Fell  over,  an  opulent  tangle  of  gem  upon  gem. 


92  WERNER'S  READINGS 

And  the  glory  thereof  sent  fever  and  fire  to  her  eye. 
"  I  liad  never  such  trinkets !  "  Like  any  broke  string  was 
her  sigh : 

M  Were  they  mine  at  the  plea,  were  they  mine  for  the  token 

all  told. 
Now  the  citadel  sleeps,  now  my  father,  the  keeper,  is  old. 

"If  I  go  by  the  way  that  I  know,  and  thou  followest  hard, 
If  yet  by  the  touch  of  Tarpeia  the  gates  be  unbarred  ?  " 

The  chief  shook  a  little  for  joy,  then  drew  rein  on  his  soul : 
"  Of  all  this  arm  beareth,  I  swear  I  will  cede  thee  the  whole." 

And  up  from  the  nooks  of  the  camp,  with  hoarse  plaudit  out- 
dealt, 
The  bearded  Sabini  came  hotly,  and  vowed,  as  they  knelt, 

Bare-stretching  the  wrists  that  bore  also  the  coveted  boon : 
"  Yea !  surely  as  over  us  shineth  the  lurid  low  moon, 

"  Not  alone  of  our  lord,  but  of  each  of  us,  take  what  he  hath ! 
Too  poor  is  the  guerdon,    if  thou  wilt  but  show  us    the 
path." 

Her  nostrils  upraised,  as  a  fawn's  on  the  arrowy  air, 
She  sped,  in  a  serpentine  gleam,  to  the  precipice  stair. 

They  climbed  in  her  traces,  they  closed  on  their  evil  quick 

star. 
She  bent  to  the  latches  and  swung  the  great  portal  ajar. 

Repulsed  as  they  passed,  and  half-tearful  for  wounded  be- 
lief, 

"  The  bracelets !  "  she  pleaded.  Then  faced  her  the  lion-like 
chief, 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22.  93 

And  answered  her :  "  Even  as  I  promised,  maid-merchant,  I 

do!" 
Down  from  his  dark  shoulder  the  baubles  he  sullenly  drew. 

I  This  left  arm  shall  nothing  begrudge  thee.   Accept.   Find 

it  sweet ! 
Give,  too,  O  my  brothers !  "    The  jewels  he  flung  at  her 

feet, — 

The  jewels  hard,  heavy.   She  stooped  to  them,  flushing  with 

dread, 
But  the  shield  he  flung  after ;  it  clanged  on  her  beautiful 

head. 

Like  the  Appenine  bells  when  the  villagers'  warnings  begin, 
Along  the  first  lull  broke  the  ominous  gathering  din  : 

With  a  "  Hail,  benefactress !  "  upon  her  they  heaped,  in  their 

zeal, 
Death, — agate  and  iron;  death, — chrysoprase,  beryl,  and 

steel ; 

A  mountain  of  shields !  and  a  glisten  of  gradual  links. 
iln  torrent-like  gush,  pouring  out  on   the  grass  from  the 
chinks, 

Inordinate  gold !  the  sumptuous  monument  won 
(By  the  deed  they  had  loved  her  for,  doing,  and  loathed  her 
for,  done. 

Such  was  the  wage  that  they  paid  her,  such  the  acclaim. 
All  Rome  was  aroused  with  the  thunder  that  buried  her 
shame. 

On  surged  the  Sabini  to  battle.  O  ye  that  aspire ! 
Tarpeia  the  traitor  had  fill  of  her  woman's  desire. 

Woe !  lightly  to  part  with  one's  soul  as  the  sea  with  his  foam ! 
Woe  to  Tarpeia,  Tarpeia,  daughter  of  Rome ! 


94  WERNER'S  READINGS 

TWO  SIMPLE  LITTLE  OSTRICHES. 


JULIET  W.  TOMPKINS. 

1VJOW  we  can  talk.     Thank  goodness,  that  old  bore 

*  ^     Who  took  me  out  is  talking  .business  o'er 

With  someone  else.    The  roses  were  so  sweet, 

You  reckless  fellow.    It's  such  fun  to  meet 

Like  ordinary  friends  while  no  one  knows 

Our  precious  secret.    Do  you  like  my  clothes  ? 

They're  new.    You  dear !   I'm  really  looking  well  ? 

Why  don't  you  like  my  sleeves  ?  They're  very  swell. 

"  They're  more  offensive  than  my  buzz-saw  hat  ?  " 

What  do  you  mean  ?  O  Jack !  How  simply  flat ; 

They  shan't  keep  you  away,  dear.   Now  take  care ! 

No,  keep  your  hands  at  home.     You've  seen  the  Fair, 

Of  course?  They're  listening,  Jack.  Do  try  to  talk. 

I'm  glad  they  didn't  have  it  in  New  York, 

Aren't  you?  Two  weeks  of  it  was  quite  enough. 

The  Ferris  Wheel?  You  wretch !  'Twas  rather  rough 

To  make  me  do  it  all,  while  you  sat  back 

And  howled  at  me.    When  we  are  married,  Jack — 

O  dearest,  please  be  careful !    They  will  guess 

If  you  don't  look  less  interested.    Yes,  yes, 

You  know  I  do.   Oh,  dearly!   By  and  by 

I'll  give  you  three, — well,  four.    Will  Congress  try 

To  introduce  new  silver  laws?     Don't  laugh ! 

/  wish  they  could  do  something  in  behalf 

Of  all  the  hungry  people  out  of  work. 

You  make  me  do  it  all,  you  wretched  shirk. 

Now  I  must  leave  you,  dearest.    Au  revoir ! 

Don't  stay  forever  over  your  cigar. 

[Their  vis-a-vis:"] 

It's  not  announced,  but  then  we  know  it's  on. 

It's  simply  low — another  good  man  gone ! 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  az.  95 


THE  SIEGE  OP  OUAUTLA :  THE  BUNKER  HILL  OP 
MEXICO. 


WALTER   S.    LOGAN. 


Arranged  by  the  author  especially  for  this  collection. 

"P  VERY  race  that  ever  has  been  has  had  to  stand  the  bap- 
•■-'  tism  of  fire.  Probably  every  race  that  ever  is  to  be  must 
go  through  the  same  experience.  For  nearly  three  hundred 
years,  the  Mexican  race  had  been  growing  and  multiplying. 
Now  the  supreme  moment  had  come.  It  must  live  or  die,  ac- 
cording as  it  stood  this  test  of  tests.  It  certainly  had  a  leader 
worthy  of  the  occasion.  It  has  been  said  that  whenever  a 
great  commander  is  wanted,  he  always  appears  at  the  right 
moment.  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  this  is  more  poetry  than 
fact.  We  sometimes  have  to  wait  long  and  patiently  for  the 
right  man  to  come,  but  the  hour  of  supreme  trial,  when  the 
fate  of  a  nation  hangs  in  the  balance,  is  the  hour  that  will  dis- 
cover and  disclose  the  hero  if  the  hero  is  there. 

Morelos  is  our  hero.  Hidalgo,  the  leader  of  the  Mexican 
revolution  against  Spain,  had  been  killed.  Morelos,  a  parish 
priest  on  the  Pacific  coast,  heard  of  this  and  the  blood  stirred 
in  his  veins.  He  started  from  his  own  parish  with  a  force 
of  twenty-five  men,  a  few  of  them  armed  with  guns,  some 
with  lances  and  the  rest  with  sticks ;  but  it  was  the  germ  of 
the  army  which  shook  the  Spanish  power  in  Mexico  to  its 
foundations  and  finally  won  the  liberty  of  its  country. 

Calleja,  the  Spanish  general,  was  in  the  North  with  his 
triumphant  army.  It  was  the  best  equipped  and  best  disd- 
ained body  of  soldiers  that  had  ever  been  on  American  soil. 
Viceroy  Venegas  sat  in  his  vice-regal  palace,  and,  as  he 
leard  of  the  progress  of  Morelos,  he  trembled,  not  only  for 
he  power  of  Spain  in  Mexico  but  for  his  own  safety.  Mes- 
enger  after  messenger  was  despatched  for  the  great  army  of 
Calleja  to  come  and  save  them  from  this  little  parish  priest 
.nd  his  force  of  rude  rustics.  Calleja  came.  He  was  to  crush 
vf  orelos  as  you  would  crush  an  egg-shell  in  your  hand ;  but 


96  WERNER'S  READINGS 

although  against  him  was  coming  all  the  power  of  Spain, 
with  the  best  general,  the  best  army  and  the  best  equipments 
of  every  kind  that  Spain  and  Mexico  could  furnish,  Morelos 
with  his  little  band  was  undaunted  and  unterrified,  and  at 
Cuautla  in  the  South  he  calmly  awaited  the  approach  of  the 
royalist  hosts. 

Wellington  once  asked  of  a  Mexican  he  met  in  Europe, 
"  Where  was  this  Cuautla?  "  and  he  was  answered  that  it 
was  a  small  open  city  upon  a  level  plain.  Wellington  re- 
plied :  "  This  shows  the  sagacity  of  Morelos."  The  place 
was.  in  fact  selected  with  rare  judgment  and  discrimination 
by  our  little  priest-commander  for  his  desperate  stand.  No 
mountain  fortress  could  have  answered  his  purpose  half  so 
well.  He  attempted  no  exterior  fortifications  whatsoever,  but 
inside  the  town  he  showed  that  the  parish  cura  was  no  mean 
military  engineer.  He  walled  up  the  doors  and  the  lower 
windows  of  the  houses,  cut  inside  communications  through 
the  walls  from  one  house  to  another,  barricaded  the  streets  in 
some  places  and  dug  deep  trenches  in  others,  hoarded  his  am- 
munition and  provisions,  drilled  his  men  night  and  day,  and 
waited  for  Calleja.  Calleja  came  and  immediately  stormed 
the  place  in  four  columns,  one  on  each  side,  confident  of  im- 
mediate success.  The  Mexicans  allowed  them  to  come  within 
a  hundred  yards  of  their  intrenchments.  Morelos  had  told 
them  to  wait  until  they  could  aim  at  the  eyes  of  their  oppo- 
nents. They  did.  Then  they  opened  so  tremendous  and  per- 
sistent a  fire  that  the  best  troops  of  Spain  and  all  the  world 
fell  back  in  wild  disorder. 

Time  and  again  Calleja  led  his  cohorts  against  this  army 
of  liberty,  but  in  vain.  A  final  attempt  was  made  to  decoy 
the  forces  of  Morelos  from  his  intrenchments,  by  pretending 
to  abandon  his  artillery ;  but  Morelos  was  not  to  be  caught. 

Time  and  again  Calleja  was  urged  and  entreated  by  Vice- 
roy Venegas  to  make  another  assault  upon  Cuautla,  but  he 
steadfastly  refused.  Nothing  could  induce  him  to  try  it 
again.  He  sent  to  Mexico  for  long  siege  guns  and  attempted 
to  batter  down  the  town,  but  again  it  was  in  vain.  There  was 
nothing  left  for  Calleja  to  do  but  to  blockade  the  town  and 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22. 


97 


try  to  starve  it  out.  Morelos  knew  that  if  he  could  only  hold 
out  until  the  rainy  season  commenced,  Calleja  would  have  to 
raise  the  siege, — for  Cuautla  is  in  the  Tierra  Calliente — - 
fevers  come  with  .the  rain,  and  the  European  troops  would  be 
lost.  If  the  rainy  season  had  come  as  usual,  this  is  what 
would  have  happened.  But  this  time,  the  Lord  seemed  to  be 
fighting  on  the  side  of  the  royalists,  and  the  rains  this  year 
were  two  months  late. 

Not  all  the  troops  of  the  royalists,  gathered  from  all  Mex- 
ico and  all  Spain,  could  dislodge  Morelos  from  Cuautla.  The 
weapons  of  human  foes  could  not  prevail  against  him.  But 
he  was  finally  driven  out  by  an  enemy  stronger  and  more  ir- 
resistible than  mortal  power.  It  was  hunger.  Their  food 
gave  out.  They  stood  it  like  heroes  day  after  day,  waiting 
for  relief,  but  none  came.  Morelos  saw  that  he  must  evacu- 
ate Cuautla.  One  dark  night,  the  troops  were  marshaled 
silently,  and  the  order  to  proceed  was  given.  Silently  they 
marched  out,  passing  right  under  the  guns  of  the  enemy,  and 
so  skilfully  was  it  all  planned,  and  -so  superb  was  the  disci- 
pline, that  they  were  not  discovered  till  they  had  crossed  the 
river,  got  beyond  the  intrenehments  of  the  enemy,  and  the 
open  country  was  before  them.  Then,  too  late,  the  Spanish 
camp  was  aroused  and  an  attack  on  all  sides  was  ordered. 
But  Morelos  was  prepared  for  this.  -He  gave  the  precon- 
certed signal,  and  that  army  of  five  thousand  men  melted 
away  as  if  by  magic  and  disappeared  into  the  darkness,  over 
the  plains  and  into  the  mountains,  where  no  enemy  could 
follow.  When  the  Spanish  forces  came  from  each  direction 
to  where  the  army  of  Morelps  ought  to  be  all  ready  to  be 
closed  upon  and  crushed,  they  saw,  through  the  darkness, 
only  the  dim  figure  of  their  own  battalions,  and  mistaking 
friends  for  enemies,  fired  upon  one  another.  Morelos  had  ar- 
ranged that,  when  he  gave  the  order  for  dispersion,  the 
troops  should  scatter  and  meet  again  as  soon  as  possible  at 
Izucar,  some  twenty  miles  away.  Two  days  afterward  they 
were  there,  and  it  is  said  that  of  this  whole  army  only  seven- 
teen were  missing. 

There  is  nothing  in  all  the  heroic  records  of  history  that 


o8  WERNER'S  READINGS 

compares  with  the  retreat,  dispersion  and  reassembling  of 
this  army  of  Morelos.  Without  a  single  desertion,  these  five 
thousand  men  scattered  over  the  plains  and  the  mountains 
and  came  together  again  at  the  call  of  their  leader,  preferring 
rather  to  die  for  liberty  than  to  live  without  it ;  and  these  men. 
were  of  a  race  that  had  never  before  known  war  and  they 
themselves  had  had  no  previous  civil  or  military  experience. 
When  Morelos  took  them,  they  were  simply  uneducated,  un- 
trained, undisciplined  rustics  and  clodhoppers.  But  the  magic 
power  of  a  great  cause  and  the  resistless  enthusiasm  of  a_  no- 
ble leader  had  transformed  them  into  heroes.  A  race  had 
been  baptized  and  a  nation  was  born. 


JAMBS  HENRY  IN  SCHOOL. 


EMILY    SELINGER. 


[By  permission  of  the  author  ] 

\1/ISH  I  didn't  hev  ter  set  all  day  in  school, 
*y      Studyin'  spellin',  grammar,  jografy  an'  sums. 
There's  always  obsticles  ter  bar  the  way 

Ter  progress,  speshly  when  the  spring-time  comes. 

Don't  mind  winter  ef  there's  lots  o'  snow  an'  ice — 
Drifts,  es  high's  the  fence  ur  roof  of  our  back  shed 

An'  froze  so  glazed  that  slidin'  down  is  nice 
An'  smooth,  not  gittin'  balled  up  on  yer  sled, 

Nur  hubbly  on  the  pond  when  skatin's  prime. 

Ter  set  in  school  an'  study  ain't  much  fun 
Ef  you've  hed  bran'-new  skates  at  Chris'mus-time 

An'  when  the  sun  mos'  sets  'fore  school  is  done. 

Can't  bear  ter  hear  birds  singin'  in  the  trees 
An'  see  um  feed  the'r  young  ones  in  the  nes' 

An'  smell  the  clover-blooms  where  bumblebees 
An'  honey-bees  an'  butterflies  air  jes' 


rAND.  RECITATIONS  No.  22. 

Ez  free  ez  air  an'  don't  hev  sums  ter  do ; 

An'  what's  the  use  o'  water  in  the  brooks 
Runnin'  like  big  Niagry  Falls  ef  you 

Can't  set  up  mill-wheels  stidder  studyin'  books. 

An'  things  you  plant  all  comin'  up  so  fas' 
Ez  ef  they  knew  they'd  got  ter  hurry  out 

'F  they  didn't  want  ter  be  the  very  las' 

O'  peas  an'  corn  an'  tother  things  thet  sprout. 

An*  everything  is  green  an'  tain't  too  hot 
Ter  lie  down  in  the  orchard's  wavin'  grass 

An'  watch  the  flowers  in  the  garden-plot 

An'  wish  thet  spring  an'  fall  would  never  pass, 

Coz  in  the  summer-time  it's  awful  warm 
So  thet  you  wouldn't  mind  ter  set  in  school 

An'  study  stidder  workin'  on  the  farm. 
Nen  in  the  fall  it's  mos'ly  nice  an'  cool ; 

An'  apples  everywhere, — green,  yaller  an'  red,-— 
Windfalls  a-waitin'  fer  the  cider-press 

Ur  hangin'  thick  ez  sparrers  overhead; 
An'  ches'nuts,  more  'n  ever  you  could  guess, 

Jes'  peekin'  slyly  out  the  prickly  burrs 

Ez  ef  beggin'  ter  be  shakened  off  the  trees ; 

An'  hick'ry  'n  butter  nuts  when  Jack  Fros'  stirs, 
A-waitin'  fur  us  boys  ur  fur  a  breeze ; 

An*  partridges  a-whirrin'  in  the  wood ; 

An'  squirrels  lookin'  wise  from  every  rail, 
Ez  ef  they  knew  it  wasn't  any  good 

Fur  me  ter  want  ter  shoot  at  'em ;  an'  quail, 

An'  crows,  an'  woodchucks ;  an'  our  fields  is  full. 

Nen  when  I  think  'bout  all  these  things  in  school, 
The  teacher  says  I'm  either  bad  ur  dull, 

An'  never  will  be  nothin'  but  a  fool. 


99 


loo  WERNER'S  READINGS. 

THE  SMITH  AND  THE  KING. 



EDWARD  CARPENTER. 

A    SMITH  upon  a  summer's  day 
**     Did  call  upon  a  king. 
The  king  exclaimed :  "  The  queen's  away; 
Can  I  do  anything?  " 

"  I  pray  you  can,"  the  smith  replied; 

"  I  want  a  bit  of  bread." 
"  Why  ?  "  cried  the  king.   The  fellow  sighed ; 

"  I'm  hungry,  sire,"  he  said. 

"  Dear  me !  I'll  call  my  chancellor ; 

He  understands  such  things. 
Your  claims  I  can  not  cancel  or 

Deem  them  fit  themes  for  kings. 

"  Sir  chancellor,  why  here's  a  wretch, 

Starving — like  rats  or  mice !  " 
The  chancellor  replied :  "  I'll  fetch 

The  first  lord  in  a  trice." 

The  first  lord  came,  and  by  his  look 
You  might  have  guessed  he'd  shirk. 

Said  he :  "  Your  Majesty's  mistook; 
This  is  the  chief  clerk's  work." 

The  chief  clerk  said  the  case  was  bad 

But  quite  beyond  his  power, 
Seeing  it  was  the  steward  had 

The  keys  of  cake  and  flour. 

The  steward  sobbed :  "  The  keys  I've  lost ! 

Alas !  but  in  a  span 
I'll  call  the  smith.   Why,  heavens  above! 

Here  is  the  very  man !  " 


AND  RECITATIONS,  No.  22.  IOX 

"  Hurrah!  hurrah!  "  they  loudly  cried; 

"  How  cleverly  we've  done  it ! 
.We've  solved  this  question  deep  and  wide, 

Well-nigh  ere  we  begun  it." 

"  Thanks,"  said  the  smith.   "  O  fools  and  vile, 

Go  rot  upon  the  shelf ! 
The  next  time  I  am  starving  I'll 

Take  care  to  help  myself." 


A  SLIGHT  MISTAKE. 


ANTHONY    HOPE. 


[Mr.  Carter,  the  man  of  the  story,  has  been  in  love  with  Dolly  (Lady 
Mickleham)  for  many  years.  She  married  Lord  Mickleham  and  is  per- 
fectly true  to  him,  but  she  still  likes  to  know  that  Mr.  Carter  is  her  slave, 
and  has  strong  objections  to  his  devoting  himself  to  any  other  woman. 
Mrs.  Hilary  is  a  good  friend  of  Mr.  Carter's,  and  the  matron  in  the  story, 
who  has  never  seen  Mr.  Hilary,  mistakes  Carter  for  him.] 

"  T  DON'T  ask  you  for  more  than  a  guinea,"  said  Mrs. 

1     Hilary. 

""  It  would  be  the  same,"  I  replied,  "  if  you  asked  me  for  a 
thousand;  "  with  which  I  handed  her  half-a-crown. 

She  regarded  it  scornfully. 

"  Yes,"  I  continued,  "  I  feel  that  pecuniary  gifts — " 

"Half-a-crown!" 

"  Are  a  poor  substitute  for  personal  service.  May  I  not  ac- 
company you  to  the  ceremony?  " 

"  I  dare  say  you  spent  as  much  as  this  on  wine  with  your 
lunch!" 

"  I  was  in  a  mad  mood  to-day,"  I  answered,  apologet- 
ically.    "  What  are  they  taught  at  the  school  ?  " 

"  Above  all,  to  be  good  girls,"  said  Mrs.  Hilary,  earnestly. 
"What  are  you  sneering  at,  Mr.  Carter?  " 

"  Nothing,"  said  I,  hastily ;  and  I  added  with  a  sigh,  "  I 
suppose  it's  all  right n 


102  WERNER'S  READINGS 

" 1  should  like,"  said  Mrs.  Hilary,  meditatively,  "'  if  I  had 
not  other  duties,  to  dedicate  my  life  to  the  service  of  girls." 

"  I  should  think  twice  about  that,  if  I  were  you,"  said  I, 
shaking  my  head. 

"  By  the  way,  Mr.  Carter,  I  don't  know  if  I've  ever  spoken 
unkindly  of  Lady  Mickleham.  I  hope  not." 

"  Hope,"  said  I,  "is  not  yet  taxed." 

"  If  I  have,  I'm  very  sorry.  She's  been  most  kind  in  un- 
dertaking to  give  away  the  prizes  to-day.  There  must  be 
some  good  in  her." 

"  Oh,  don't  be  hasty !  "  I  implored. 

"  I  always  wanted  to  think  well  of  her." 

"  Ah !  Now  I  never  did." 

"  And  Lord  Mickleham  is  coming,  too.  He'll  be  most  use- 
ful." 

"  That  settles  it,"  I  exclaimed.  "  I  may  not  be  an  earl,  but 
I  have  a  perfect  right  to  be  useful.    I'll  go,  too." 

"  I  wonder  if  you'll  behave  properly,"  said  Mrs.  Hilary, 
doubtfully. 

I  held  out  a  half-sovereign,  three  half-crowns  and  a 
shilling. 

"  Oh,  well,  you  may  come,  since  Hilary  can't,"  said  Mrs. 
Hilary. 

"  You  mean  he  won't,"  I  observed. 

"  He  has  always  been  prevented  hitherto,"  said  she,  with 
dignity. 

So  I  went,  and  it  proved  a  most  agreeable  expedition. 
There  were  200  girls  in  blue  frocks  and  white  aprons  (the 
girl  three  from  the  end  of  the  fifth  row  was  decidedly 
pretty),  a  nice  lot  of  prize  books,  the  Micklehams  (Dolly  in 
demure  black),  ourselves  and  the  matron.  All  went  well. 
Dolly  gave  away  the  prizes ;  Mrs.  Hilary  and  Archie  made 
little  speeches.  Then  the  matron  came  to  me.  I  was  sitting 
modestly  at  the  back  of  the  platform,  a  little  distance  behind 
the  others. 

*  Mr.  Hilary,"  said  the  matron  to  me,  "we're  so  glad  to 
see  you  here  at  last.  Won't  you  say  a  few  words?  " 


And  recitations  No.  22.  103 

"  It  would  be  a  privilege,"  I  responded,  cordially,  "  but 
unhappily  I  have  a  sore  throat." 

The  matron,  who  was  a  most  respectable  woman,  said: 
"  Dear,  dear !  "  but  did  not  press  the  point. 

Evidently,  however,  she  liked  me,  for  when  we  went  to 
have  a  cup  of  tea,  she  got  me  in  a  corner  and  began  to  tell  me 
all  about  the  work.  It  was  extremely  interesting.  Then  the 
matron  observed : 

"  And  what  an  angel  Mrs.  Hilary  is !  " 

"  Well,  I  should  hardly  call  her  that,"  said  I,  with  a  smile. 

"  Oh,  you  mustn't  depreciate  her — you,  of  all  men !  "  cried 
the  matron,  with  a  somewhat  ponderous  archness.  "  Really 
I  envy  you  her  constant  society." 

"  I  assure  you,"  said  I,  "  I  see  very  little  of  her," 

"  I  beg  your  pardon?  " 

"  I  only  go  to  the  house  about  once  a  fortnight —  Oh,  it's 
not  my  fault.   She  won't  have  me  there  oftener." 

'"  What  do  you  mean  ?  I  beg  your  pardon.  Perhaps  I've 
touched  on  a  painful — " 

"  Not  at  all,  not  at  all,"  said  I,  suavely.  "  It  is  very  natural. 
I'm  neither  young  nor  handsome,  Mrs.  Wiggins.  I  am  not 
complaining." 

The  matron  gazed  at  me. 

"  Only  seeing  her  here,"  I  pursued,  "  you  have  no  idea  of 
what  she  is  at  home.  She  has  chosen  to  forbid  me  to  come  to 
her  house — " 

"Her  house?" 

"  It  happens  to  be  more  hers  than  mine,"  I  explained. 
"  To  forbid  me,  I  say,  more  than  once  to  come  to  her  house. 
No  doubt  she  had  her  reasons." 

"  Nothing  to  justify  it,"  said  the  matron,  directing  a  won- 
dering glance  at  Mrs.  Hilary. 

"  Do  not  let  us  blame  her,"  said  I.  "  It  is  just  an  unfortu- 
nate accident.  She  is  not  as  fond  of  me  as  I  could  wish,  Mrs. 
Wiggins,  and  she  is  a  great  deal  fonder  than  I  could  wish 
of—" 

I  broke  off.  Mrs.  Hilary  was  walking  toward  us.  I  think 
she  was  pleased  to  see  me  getting  on  so  well  with  the  matron, 


104  WERNER'S  READINGS 

for  she  was  smiling  pleasantly.  The  matron  wore  a  bewil- 
dered expression. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Mrs.  Hilary,  *'  that  you'll  drive  back 
with  the  Micklehams  ?  " 

"  Unless  you  want  me,"  said  I,  keeping  a  watchful  eye  on 
the  matron. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  want  you,"  said  Mrs.  Hilary,  lightly. 

"  You  won't  be  alone  this  evening?  "  I  asked,  anxiously. 

Mrs.  Hilary  stared  a  little. 

"  Oh,  no !  "  she  said.   "  We  shall  have  our  usual  party." 

"  May  I  come  one  day  next  week  ?  "    I   asked,    humbly. 

Mrs.  Hilary  thought  for  a  moment. 

"  I'm  busy  next  week.  Come  the  week  after,"  said  she, 
giving  me  her  hand. 

"  That's  very  unkind,"  said  I. 

"  Nonsense !  "  said  Mrs.  Hilary,  and  she  added :  "  Mind 
you  let  me  know  when  you're  coming." 

'  I  won't  surprise  you,"  I  assured  her,  with  a  covert  glance 
at  the  matron. 

The  excellent  woman  was  quite  red  in  the  face,  and  could 
gasp  out  nothing  but  "  Good-bye,"  as  Mrs.  Hilary  affection- 
ately pressed  her  hand. 

At  this  moment  Dolly  came  up.   She  was  alone. 

"  Where's  Archie  ?"  I  asked. 

"He's  run  away;  he's  got  to  meet  somebody.  I  knew 
you'd  see  me  home.  Mrs.  Hilary  didn't  want  you,  of 
course?" 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  I,  plaintively. 

"  Besides,  you'd  rather  come  with  me,  wouldn't  you  ?  " 
pursued  Dolly,  and  she  added  pleasantly  to  the  matron: 
"  Mrs.  Hilary's  so  down  on  him,  you  know." 

"  I'd  much  rather  come  with  you,"  said  I. 

"  We'll  have  a  cozy  ride  all  to  ourselves,"  said  Dolly, 
'"  without  husbands  or  wives  or  anything  horrid.  Isn't  it  nice 
to  get  rid  of  one's  husband  sometimes,  Mrs.  Wiggins  ?  " 

"  I  have  the  misfortune  to  be  a  widow,  Lady  Mickleham," 
said  Mrs,  Wiggins. 

Dolly's  eyes  rested  upon  her  with  an  interested  expression. 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22.  105 

I  knew  that  she  was  about  to  ask  Mrs.  Wiggins  whether  she 
liked  the  condition  of  life,  and  I  interposed  hastily,  with  a 
sigh: 

"  But  you  can  look  back  on  a  happy  marriage,  Mrs.  Wig- 
gins?"  ' 

"  I  did  my  best  to  make  it  so,"  said  she,  stiffly. 

"  You're  right,"  said  I.  "  Even  in  the  face  of  unkindness 
we  should  strive^" 

"  My  husband's  not  unkind,"  said  Dolly. 

"  I  didn't  mean  your  husband,"  said  I. 

"  What  your  poor  wife  would  do  if  she  cared  a  button  for 
you,  I  don't  know,"  observed  Dolly. 

"  If  I  had -a  wife  who  cared  for  me,  I  should  be  a  better 
man,"  said  I,  solemnly. 

"  But  you'd  probably  be  very  dull,"  said  Dolly.  "  And  you 
wouldn't  be  allowed  to  drive  with  me." 

"  Perhaps  it's  all  for  the  best,"  said  I,  brightening  up. 
"  Good-bye,  Mrs.  Wiggins." 

Dolly  walked  on.  Mrs.  Wiggins  held  my  hand  for  a  mo- 
ment. 

"  Young  man,"  said  she,  sternly,  "  are  you  sure  it's  not 
your  own  fault  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  at  all  sure,  Mrs.  Wiggins,"  said  I.  "  But  don't 
be  distressed  about  it.  It's  of  no  consequence.  I  don't  let 
it  make  me  unhappy.  Good-bye ;  so  many  thanks.  Charming 
girls  you  have  here,  especially  that  one  in  the  fifth — I  mean, 
charming  all  of  them.  Good-bye." 

I  hastened  to  the  carriage.  Mrs.  Wiggins  stood  and 
watched.   I  got  in  and  sat  down  by  Dolly. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Wiggins,"  said  Dolly,  dimpling;  "  don't  tell 
Mrs.  Hilary  that  Archie  wasn't  with  us,  or  we  shall  get  into 
trouble."    And  she  added  to  me :  "  Are  you  all  right?  " 

"  Rather!  "  said  I,  appreciatively,  and  we  drove  off,  leav- 
ing Mrs.  Wiggins  on  the  door-step. 

A  fortnight  later  I  went  to  call  on  Mrs.  Hilary.  After 
some  conversation  she  remarked : 

■"  I  am  going  to  the  school  again  to-morrow." 

"Really!"  said! 


:■ 


lo6  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"  And  I'm  so  delighted — I've  persuaded  Hilary  to  come." 

She  paused,  and  then  added:  "  You  really  seemed  inter- 
ested last  time." 

"  Oh,  I  was." 

"  Would  you  like  to  come  again  to-morrow?  " 

"  No,  I  think  not,  thanks,"  said  I,  carelessly. 

"  That's  just  like  you,"  said  she,  severely.  "  You  never  do 
any  real  good,  because  you  never  stick  to  anything." 

"  There  are  some  things  one  can't  stick  to,"  said  I. 

"  Oh,  nonsense !  "  said  Mrs.  Hilary. 

But  there  are — and  I  didn't  go. 


BOB  "WHITE. 


FRANCIS  CHARLES  MPDONALD 

A  T  morn,  when  first  the  rosy  gleam 
**■     Of  rising  sun  proclaimed  the  day, 
There  reached  me,  through  my  last  sweet  dream, 
This  oft-repeated  lay 

(Too  sweet  for  cry, 
^     Too  brief  for  song, 

'Twas  borne  along 
The  reddening  sky)  : 

"Bob  White! 
Daylight,  Bob  White! 

Daylight !  " 

At  eve,  when  first  the  fading  glow 

Of  setting  sun  foretold  the  night, 
The  same  sweet  call  came,  soft  and  low, 

Across  the  dying  light 

(Too  sweet  for  cry, 
Too  brief  for  song, 
'Twas  but  a  long, 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22. 

Contented  sigh)  : 

"Bob  White! 
Good  night,  Bob  White ! 

Goodnight!" 


107 


FRANZ. 


WELLS  T.   HAWKS. 


|From  Munsey^s  Magazine,  by  permission  of  Frank  A.  Munsey.] 

TT  was  the  stormiest  rehearsal  of  the  season.  Everybody's 
*  temper  was  rough  edged,  from  the  leader  of  the  orches- 
tra down  to  the  jolly  little  drummer  who  played  zylophone 
solos  while  the  comic  man  was  doing  his  dance.  The  slender 
baton  which  the  professor  held  tightly  in  his  nervous  hand 
had  beaten  a  continuous  tattoo  on  the  music-rack.  The  stage- 
manager's  voice  seemed  harsher  than  ever,  and  his  com- 
mands all  the  more  dictatorial. 

Perhaps  it  all  never  would  have  happened  but  for  the  care- 
lessness of  several  of  the  chorus  girls,  whose  groupings  and 
poses  at  the  last  few  performances  had  been  worse  than  the 
tableaux  at  a  car-drivers'  ball.  The  star  had  noticed  this 
shirking,  and,  with  commendable  ambition  to  make  the  New 
York  run  a  series  of  brilliant  hits,  had  conferred  with  the 
stage-manager ;  a  call  for  a  dress  rehearsal  posted  in  the 
wings  was  the  result.  Of  course,  it  had  made  everybody 
mad. 

"  To  think  of  it,"  said  the  man  who  played  the  part  of  a 
fat,  awkward  old  prince,  who  was  always  getting  a  laugh  for 
the  way  he  trod  on  the  trains  of  the  court  ladies,  "  it  is  simply 
provoking  that  with  the  work  of  a  hard  performance  on  us, 
we've  got  to  rehearse  and  rehearse,  just  because  a  cheap 
chorus  can't  do  its  work." 

"  And  the  day  before  a  matinee,  too,"  said  the  tenor, 
whose  chief  ambition  was  to  save  his  voice  for  his  duet  with 
the  prima  donna. 


io8  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Such  remarks  were  being  made  on  all  sides,  and  they  only 
ceased  when  the  cues  carried  the  talkers  to  the  stage.  The 
leader  of  the  orchestra,  whom  everyone  feared,  and  whose 
remarks  and  criticisms  were  cuttingly  sarcastic,  had  the 
fiercest  temper  of  all.  He  had  said  all  he  could  to  the  mem- 
bers of  the  orchestra,  and  everyone  expected  to  see  him  throw 
his  chair  at  some  discordant  player  at  any  moment. 

He  rapped  his  baton  again,  and  the  sweet,  restful  air  of  a 
lullaby  floated  up  from  reed  and  string.  It  had  a  quieting 
effect,  but  not  half  so  much  as  the  presence  of  the  beautiful 
woman  whose  soft,  rich  voice  was  mingling  with  its  notes 
in  exquisite  harmony.  Though  they  had  heard  the  song  a 
hundred  times  and  more,  all  listened,  so  sweet  was  its  mel- 
ody. With  perfect  ease  and  enchanting  expression  she 
touched  her  highest  notes,  until  they  sounded  through  the 
vacant  theatre  like  the  tinkling  of  some  sweet-toned  bell. 
Her  face,  fair  and  serene,  was  as  beautiful  as  the  song  she 
sang,  and  each  note  found  a  responsive  chord  in  the  hearts  of 
those  around  her;  for  in  the  company  of  threescore  there  was 
not  one  who  did  not  love  her.  She  was  the  prima  donna, 
the  one  particular  star  of  the  cast.  To  her  singing,  thou- 
sands had  listened  spellbound,  only  to  break  forth  in  raptur- 
ous applause — yet  she  was  so  lovable,  so  companionable,  so 
kind  and  willing  to  help  those  below  her. 

Presently  there  was  a  fearful  discord  in  the  orchestra. 
It  came  from  one  of  the  violins.  The  singer  ceased,  and 
the  music  stopped.  With  anger  in  his  eyes,  and  lips  quiver- 
ing with  rage,  the  leader  turned  toward  a  crouching  figure 
in  a  chair  beneath  the  stand. 

"  What  do  you  mean?  What  do  you  mean,  I  say?  Have 
you  not  played  that  bar  a  thousand  times  ?  " 

There  was  no  reply,  but  a  boyish  face,  with  anguish  in 
every  feature,  was  uplifted  toward  the  angry  man. 

"  Do  not  look  at  me  in  that  stupid  way.  Have  I  not 
taught  you  better  ?  " 

"  But,  sir,"  pleaded  the  boy,  "  it  was  all  a  mistake." 

"  Bah,  a  mistake,  indeed !    It  was  all  your  careless >f 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22.  109 

**  Never  mind,"  said  the  prima  donna;  "  he  could  not  help 
it.    I  will  sing  it  again." 

"Madame,  I  will  attend  to  this  part  of  the  company. 
Franz,  leave  the  place.    Anton,  you  take  the  second  violin." 

The  boy,  for  that  was  all  he  was,  picked  up  his  instru- 
ment, and  looked  up  over  the  lights.  His  eyes  met  those  of 
the  singer.  She  smiled,  and  he,  brushing  a  tear  from  his 
blue  eyes,  opened  the  door  and  went  down  into  the  musicians' 
room  beneath  the  stage. 

"  I  will  sing  no  more  to-day,"  said  the  prima  donna,  and 
she  left  the  stage. 

Poor  Franz !  He  threw  himself  down  on  an  old  property 
bench,  and,  burying  his  face  in  his  hands,  cried  as  only  a 
heart-wounded  boy  can.  Poor  little  fellow !  Fourteen  years 
old,  and  his  father,  an  old  instrument-maker,  had  died,  leav- 
ing Franz  and  a  widowed  mother,  with  but  little  to  support 
them.  His  little  heart  had  leaped  with  joy  when  the  pro- 
fessor consented  to  place  him  in  the  orchestra,  for  it  was  his 
life's  ambition  to  become  a  virtuoso  like  those  of  whom  his 
father  had  talked  so  often.  But  the  professor  had  not  always 
been  kind,  and  the  tender  feelings  had  been  cut  more  than 
once.  As  he  sobbed,  he  was  wondering  if  he  would  be  sent 
back  home, — a  failure. 

The  idea  sickened  him,  and  tears  were  fast  returning, 
when  a  gentle  hand  touched  his  pulsing  forehead.  He  raised 
his  tear-stained  face  timidly,  thinking  the  time  for  the 
dreaded  scolding  had  come.  But  instead  of  seeing  the  cold, 
hard  features  of  the  professor,  he  saw  the  gentle  face  of  the 
prima  donna.  He  had  never  seen  her  so  close  before,  and 
her  countenance  seemed  to  him  like  that  of  an  angel. 

"  Don't  cry,  dear,"  she  said,  as  she  brushed  back  the  hair 
from  his  forehead.  "  Don't  cry,  for  my  sake,  and  you^shall 
play  for  me  to-night." 

His  face  lighted  up,  and  the  great  choking  lumps  in  his 
throat  melted  away  under  the  caresses  of  that  comforting 
hand. 

"  Go  home  now,"  she  said,  "  and  come  back  to-night.  No 
one  shall  scold  you," 


no  WERNER'S  READINGS. 

Then  she  handed  him  a  flower,  and  left  the  room.  He 
could  say  nothing,  he  was  so  happy.  His  eyes,  beaming  with 
joy,  followed  her  to  the  door ;  and  when  it  closed,  the  sound 
of  her  footsteps  on  the  narrow  staircase  was  like  the  sweet- 
est music  to  him. 

In  the  evening  he  took  his  place  in  the  orchestra,  and 
played  as  he  never  had  played  before.  When  the  time  for 
the  lullaby  came,  and  his  "  beautiful  friend,"  as  he  had  de- 
scribed her  to  his  mother,  came  on  the  stage,  he  bowed  his 
head  down  over  his  violin,  and  the  music  that  rose  from  that 
one  instrument  alone  was  in  itself  a  symphony.  Then  came 
the  applause,  and  as  it  died  away  in  echoes,  she  looked  down 
at  him  and  smiled. 


Days  had  passed  since  the  unpleasant  rehearsal,  and  it  had 
almost  been  forgotten.  One  night  there  was  a  stir  behind 
the  curtain  when  the  stage-manager,  after  reading  a  note 
brought  by  a  messenger,  had  called  for  the  prima  donna's 
understudy.  It  was  not  long  before  the  news  spread  to  the 
dressing-rooms,  and  every  heart  was  saddened,  for  the  note 
had  brought  the  tidings  of  the  illness  of  the  loved  singer. 
Franz  missed  her,  too;  and  when  the  curtain  had  dropped 
on  the  last  act,  he  put  his  violin  under  his  arm,  and  went  up 
the  dark,  winding  steps  to  the  stage. 

The  "  light "  man,  who  had  always  been  kind  to  Franz, 
was  shutting  off  the  circuit  for  the  house  lights.  Franz 
asked  him  about  the  prima  donna's  absence,  and  was  told 
that  she  had  been  taken  suddenly  ill.  He  started  home 
with  his  heart  heavy.  He  stopped  for  a  moment  before  the 
window  of  a  music-store,  and  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  score  of 
the  lullaby  his  friend  had  sung.  With  a  sudden  impulse  he 
started  off  in  a  different  direction. 

He  walked  on  for  many  blocks,  and  came  finally  to  a 
brightly-lighted  apartment-house.  A  hall  boy  opened  the 
door  for  him.  With  a  tremor  in  his  voice,  Franz  asked  if  the 
boy  could  tell  him  if  Mme.  Can  tori  was  very  ill.    The  boy 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22.  in 

simply  replied,  "  Second  story  front,"  and  taking  this  as  an 
invitation,  Franz  passed  in  and  up  the  broad  stairs. 

He  was  just  turning  the  landing,  when  he  met  a  man 
coming  down.  *  Franz  stopped  him  and  politely  asked  if  he 
could  direct  him  to  the  singer's  room.  The  man  was  a 
physician.  He  stopped,  looked  at  the  boy,  and  said  that 
madame  was  very, very  ill,  and  could  not  see  him.  What 
was  the  matter  ?  the  boy  asked.  An  attack  of  the  heart  had 
stricken  her  down,  the  man  replied,  and  life  was  only  hang- 
ing by  a  thread. 

Tears  came  into  the  boy's  eyes,  and  a  sob  passed  his  lips. 
He  went  on,  and  stopped  before  the  door.  It  was  as  quiet 
as  death  within.  He  waited  there  a  long  time.  The  phys- 
ician came  and  went  again,  but  only  shook  his  head  sadly 
and  meaningly,  and  went  on. 

s  Franz  knelt  down,  noiselessly  unlocked  the  case,  and  took 
out  his  violin.  He  raised  the  bow,  and  placing  the  instru- 
ment against  his  face,  began  to  play.  It  was  the  soft,  sweet 
notes  of  the  lullaby  that  floated  through  the  quiet  building, 
and  into  the  room  where  the  singer  lay. 

Life  was  ebbing  fast,  but  as  the  music  reached  her  ears, 
1ier  eyes  opened  and  a  smile  of  ineffable  sweetness  came  to 
the  beautiful  face.    The  watchers  leaned  over  her  couch. 

"Hear,  hear,"  she  murmured;  "it  is  Franz,  dear  little 
Franz!" 

Still  the  music  kept  on,  sweeter  and  softer,  as  each  note 
was  played.  The  singer  tried  to  rise,  and  loving  hands  sup- 
ported her. 

"  Listen !  the  lullaby !  "  she  whispered. 

Not  another  sound  disturbed  the  seene,  so  solemn  and  sad. 
But  just  as  the  closing  notes  of  the  music  were  being  played, 
a  string  on  the  violin  snapped. 

The  singer  opened  her  eyes,  and  faintly  breathed :  "  God 
bless  little  Franz." 

The  eyes  closed  again,  and  her  head  sank  back  on  the  pil- 
low. A  voice,  rich  and  beautiful,  was  hushed,  and  the  soul 
of  the  singer  had  passed  into  that  chorus  whose  melodies 
ring  on  through  eternity. 


WERNER'S  READINGS 
MY  CHILDHOOD'S  LOVE. 


CHARLES   KINGSLEY. 

I  ONCE  had  a  sweet  little  doll,  dears, 

*      The  prettiest  doll  in  the  world; 

Her  cheeks  were  so  red  and  so  white,  dears, 

And  her  hair  was  so  charmingly  curled. 
But  I  lost  my  poor  little  doll,  dears, 

As  I  played  in  the  heath  one  day ; 
And  I  cried  for  her  more  than  a  week,  dears4 

But  I  never  could  find  where  she  lay. 

I  found  my  poor  little  doll,  dears, 

As  I  played  in  the  heath  one  day. 
Folks  say  she  is  terribly  changed,  dears, 

For  her  paint  is  all  washed  away, 
And  her  arm  trodden  off  by  the  cows,  dears, 

And  her  hair  not  the  least  bit  curled ; 
Yet  for  old  sake's  sake  she  is  still,  dears, 

The  prettiest  doll  in  the  world. 


ON  THE  CALENDAR. 


TT  was  down  by  Santiago.  The  rations  had  been  long 
*  coming  and  the  troops  were  hungry.  One  of  the  Seventy- 
first  boys  sauntered  carelessly  into  the  colonel's  tent  and 
said : 

"  Good  morning,  colonel.  Got  a  calendar  about  any- 
where?'* 

"  Why,  I  don't  know,  Jack.  Guess  there's  one  some- 
where.   What  d'  you  want  a  calendar  for  ?  " 

**  Just  wanted  to  eat  the  dates  off  it,  colonel." 


'AND.  RECITATIONS,   No.  22.  113 


ANNUNCIATA. 


MARY  ANNABLE  FANTON. 


[By  permission  of  the  author.] 

[This  selection  is  very  effective  if  given  in  the  costume  of  a  Spanish 
peasant  girl,  with  red  roses  in  the  hair.] 

Wt  HIME !  chime !  The  bells  are  calling  for  matin  service, 
^->  and  the  monks,  sallow  and  lean,  glide  past  over  the 
worn  pathway.  The  deep  tones  of  the  organ  and  the  sullen 
roar  of  the  sea  meet,  blend,  and  melt  away  together. 

Outside  the  gate,  on  the  narrow  highway,  stands  a  man 
gaily  clad  in  the  Portuguese  sailor  colors.  The  melodious 
Latin  chants  reach  him,  the  twitter  of  birds  is  all  about  him, 
and  waves  of  sunlight  gleam  in  his  tangled  curls ;  but  he  sees 
and  hears  only  Annunciata.  Slowly  she  is  coming  down  the 
mountain-side  laden  with  roses  of  gorgeous  hue  and  wild 
hill-flowers  of  tropical  splendor.  As  she  nears,  the  man 
bounds  lightly  to  her. 

"  Annunciata!  querida  mia!  "'tis  Juan,  thy  brother.  But 
thou  art  weary,  little  one,  and  white — white  as  thy  name- 
sake lilies.  'Tis  but  two  years  that  I  saw  thee  dance  el  sol  on 
the  Plaza,  and  kissed  thy  coral  lips  adios." 

"  But  two  years,  en  verdad,  Juan,  and  now  I  am  old  and 
1  waiting  for  death.  Hush!  Juan  mio,  weep  not,  and  I  will 
itell  thee  all — all — just  as  it  came  from  day  to  day.  I  will 
I  tell  it  to  thy  heart  and  then  thou  wilt  marvel  not  that  I  am 
weary  and  longing  for  the  endless  sleep." 

The  dark  eyes  of  the  Portuguese  sailor  gleamed  fiercely 

and  his  hands  clenched  as  he  said  in  a  harsh,  strained  voice : 

( 'Tis  true,  then,  what  they  said  in  the  port :  'Twas  a  lover 

who  took  from  thee  thy  beauty  and  color  and  left  thee 

thus," 

The  dreamy  look  in  the  girl's  eyes  does  not  change.  She 
feels  the  truth,  not  the  scorn,  in  her  brother's  words. 

'Tis  .true,  Juan;  my  beauty  and  strength    are   buried 


ii4 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


yonder  in  the  grave  with  my  lover — my  lover/'  and  the 
words  are  broken  into  many  syllables  by  little  quivering  sobs. 

"  He  was  a  grand  hidalgo,  and  lived  in  the  great  Castillo 
in  the  city,  but  his  heart  was  mine — mine.  First,  Juan,  I  saw 
him  in  the  Plaza.  I  was  dancing,  with  red  roses  in  my 
hands,  in  my  hair.  'Twas  el  sol,  the  dance  you  loved.  As  I 
danced  My  Lord  rode  by.  But  once  our  eyes  met,  and  I 
laughed  aloud  for  joy.  And  then  he  came  often.  Where'er 
I  danced,  there,  surely,  My  Lord  rode  by,  until  we  loved  each 
other.  Hush,  Juan,  if  thou  but  sayest  one  word  ill  of  him  it 
is  the  last  between  us.  Dost  remember  the  good  padre  who 
confessed  our  mother  ?  'Twas  he  who  married  us,  secretly, 
under  the  oath  of  the  crucifix. 

" Madre  de  Dios!  what  life,  what  love,  was  ours! 
Naught  was  ever  like  it,  naught  in  the  world  save  the  sun- 
light there  on  the  sea — a  glory !  a  radiance !  See,  Juan,  how 
the  waters  creep  up  high  in  the  light,  to  bathe  in  its  beauty 
and  glisten  and  sparkle.  But  a  cloud  passes  by  and  the 
ocean  is  dead. 

"  In  a  little  time  the  old  priest  sickened  unto  death,  and 
with  cowardly  fear  confessed  our  marriage;  and  when  La 
Senora — My  Lord's  stepmother — heard,  she  vowed  fearful 
vengeance,  for  she  longed  for  the  goodly  heritage  for  her 
own  young  son.  So  little  had  Don  Carlos  sought  for  women, 
so  strong  his  love  of  Church,  that  she  had  grown  to  dream 
the  land  her  own. 

"  Merrily  My  Lord  laughed  at  her  threats;  but  I — I  could 
not  sleep  for  remembering  and  fearing  her. 

"  All  through  the  carnival  we  laughed  and  darreed;  laugh- 
ter set  to  music,  and  dances  swaying  to  the  rhythm  of  love ; 
all  joy  supreme,  save  at  night,  the  crawling,  choking  fear  of 
La  Senora. 

"  'Twas  the  last  day  of  the  carnival,  the  day  when  My 
Lord  came  not, — that  terrible  day  that  seems  beaten  out 
into  centuries.  Never,  since  the  day  I  laughed  in  his  eyes, 
had  I  danced  without  him.  With  a  heart  afar  off  I  sang, 
waiting.  I  danced  till  I  was  cold  and  faint,  danced  till  the 
earth  reeled. 


AND  RECITATIONS.  No.  22.  115 

"  Carmen,  the  singer,  caught  me  in  her  arms  and  gave  me 
water,  but  not  for  love.  l 

"  With  a  smile  she  whispered :  '  Thy  lover  is  gone ;  thou 
wilt  dance  vainly  to-morrow  and  forever.' 

"  With  fierce  words  I  pushed  her  from  me. 

"  '  Thou  liest,  Carmen.  If  my  lover  were  gone  forever  I 
should  be  dead.' 

"  Carmen  laughed  loudly;  '  Yet  he  is  gone,  Annunciata. 
Through  iron  bars  thou  mayest  seek  him,  for  he  has  repented 
his  evil  life  with  thee  and  prays  yonder  in  the  monastery.' 

"  Ah !  Juanito,  'twas  true.  La  Senora  had  kept  her  vow, 
and  hatred  had  proven  stronger  than  love. 

"  For  days  afterward  I  lived  here  on  the  hillside,  always 
in  sight  of  the  great  gray  walls,  praying  and  fasting. 

v  At  last,  one  night,  I  crept  up  close  to  the  barred  gates. 
There,  when  the  sea  was  not  too  bold,  I  could  hear  the  mur- 
mured prayers  and,  Dios  miol  afar  off  the  moaning  of  a  tor- 
tured soul! 

"  As  the  Latin  hymns  ceased  gradually,  the  moaning 
grew  louder,  harsher,  filling  the  air  about  me  and  chilling 
my  heart,  for,  Juanito,  'twas  the  voice^of  my  beloved.  One 
of  the  bars  of  the  great  gate  had  loosened.  Through  it  I 
slipped  easily,  for  I  had  grown  very  thin,  and  fled  swiftly, 
noiselessly,  over  the  stone  courts,  beckoned  on  by  the  thick, 
gasping  sound  of  a  strong  man's  agony.  At  his  window  I 
stooped,  throwing  myself  against  the  bars,  tearing  at  them 
wildly,  begging,  pleading,  moaning  in  answer  to  his  cries. 
I  forgot  all  but  our  love  and  the  cruel  bars  that  held  us  apart. 

"  I  heeded  not  the  approaching  footsteps,  nor  the  heavy 
hands  laid  upon  me.  I  fought  with  them  when  they  carried 
me  away.  I  held  my  breath  as  I  heard  their  malignant  whis- 
pers :  '  'Tis  the  dancer,  his  sweetheart ;  his  vow  is  broken. 
He  shall  suffer  again/  Over  the  stone  court  they  dragged 
me,  through  a  dark,  long  passage  and  into  a  square  dungeon 
full  of  strange,  black  objects  that  cast  awful  shadows  in  the 
thin,  trembling  light. 

"  I  strove  to  think,  to  make  myself  known ;  for  they  talked 
of  Carlos.    Together  they  whispered,  and  as  they  sat  in  the 


1 1 6  WERNER'S  READINGS 

pale  light,  with  sallow  faces  resting  on  their  crooked  bony 
hands,  I  fell  to  shivering  and  trembling,  so  dire  were  their 
looks  and  words. 

"  They  told,  hermano  mio,  how,  if  they  could  keep  My 
Lord  to  the  vow  they  had  wrung  from  him  on  the  rack,  a 
part  of  the  lands  and  the  wealth  of  his  great  estate  would 
by  and  by  come  into  the  Church.  La  Senora  would  have 
much ;  but  the  Church  far  more.  And,  then,  they  added 
quite  loudly  that  I  might  hear,  '  We  will  test  him  through 
her.  She  shall  dance,  dance  as  she  did  on  the  Plaza,  dance 
while  he  lies  on  the  rack,  dance  with  his  moan  filling  her 
ears.  If  it  be  that  she  can  do  this  lightly,  then  it  were  best 
to  consider, — not  judge  too  severely.  La  Senora  may  have 
been  rash  in  her  solicitude  for  his  spiritual  welfare. 

"  And  I  believed  them,  Juan !  I  believed  them !  How 
could  I  know  that  their  words  were  spoken  but  to  deceive 
and  make  me  seem  light  in  the  eyes  of  my  lover  ? 

"  While  I  yet  dreamed  of  his  freedom,  the  door  swung 
back  and,  between  them,  the  monks  carried  a  long,  heavy, 
black  box.  They  passed  near  me  that  I  might  better  see  the 
burden  within. 

"  There,  white  and  still,  lay  My  Lord.  Fast  were  his  teeth 
shut,  as  though  locked  with  inner  bolts,  his  yellow  hair 
cropped  close,  and  the  fair  skin  drawn  tightly. 

"  His  hands — the  hands  that  had  blown  me  kisses  and 
lifted  my  hair  to  see  the  sunbeams    drift    through — were 
scarred  and  twisted — not  like  human  hands. 
,     "And  I  was  to  dance  for  him! 

"  'Tis  naught,  Juan ;  I  am  but  dizzy  in  the  sunlight. 
Plainly  I  see  them  now :  The  older  monk  standing  by  the 
narrow,  black  box,  with  his  hands  resting  on  the  wooden 
handles  at  the  side,  and  next,  smiling  at  me, — a  cruel,  sensu- 
ous smile — the  younger  blue-eyed  brother,  with  a  tiny  silver 
flute  in  his  hand. 

"  Words  of  prayer  were  on  my  lips :  '  Madre  de  Diosf 
Madre  de  Jesus! '  T3ut  I  remembered  that  I  was  not  to  pray, 
only  to  dance  for  them. 

"  Though  my  heart  beat  until  my  bodice  moved,  I  vowed 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22.  117 

the  dance  should  be  a  brave  one — a  brave,  merry  one  for  the 
sake  of  my  lover. 

"  Lightly  I  threw  my  hands  over  my  head  and  leaned 
toward  the  priests,  smiling,  waiting  for  the  first  note  from 
the  silver  flute.  As  the  fine,  shrill  melody  of  the  tiny  instru- 
ment floated  through  the  room,  the  older  monk,  without 
taking  his  eyes  from  my  face,  slowly  moved  the  wooden 
handles  of  the  box.  God  of  mercy  and  of  love !  what  a  cry 
smote  my  heart !  Forgetting  my  vow,  forgetting  all  but  My 
Lord's  agony,  I  knelt  at  their  feet,  begging  for  mercy, — 
mercy  for  my  beloved.  Gladly  would  I  suffer  in  his  place. 
Misericordia!  Misericordia!  I  wept  before  them,  kissing 
their  hands,  their  robes, — the  very  floor  of  the  cell. 

"  But  the  cruel,  strong  hand  of  the  monk  was  once  more 
laid  on  the  rack.  As  I  saw  it  I  sprang  from  the  ground, 
striking  to  the  wall  the  crucifix  he  held.  With  the  strength 
of  fury  I  broke  in  twain  the  hideous  wooden  handles  and 
flung  them  through  the  bars. 

"  As  if  in  craven  fear  the  monks  stood  by,  while  I  lifted 
gently,  tenderly,  the  wasted,  twisted  hands. 

"  Softly,  lest  he  should  rouse  to  fresh  pain,  I  smoothed 
back  the  damp  hair,  and  wiped  the  flecks  of  foam  from  the 
sweet  curved  lips.  There  was  no  sound  in  the  cell,  only  the 
far-off  sea,  wailing  and  moaning  in  the  starless  night. 

"  Truly,  I  mourned  not  as  other  women ;  I  feared  only 
that  My  Lord  was  not  dead.  I  trembled  only  lest  again  his 
brave  heart  should  beat  with  the  anguish  of  living.  Even 
while  I  dreamed  thus,  the  drawn  lips  quivered,  weakly  as 
the  lips  of  a  shadow.  Stooping  close,  I  listened,  every  nerve 
straining  until  the  very  silence  seemed  alive. 

"  The  monks  stirred  not.  Well  they  knew  their  work  was 
finished ! 

i      "  So  loudly  my  heart  beat  that  it  seemed  the  echo  of  the 
tossing  sea ;  yet  I  moved  not  nor  spoke. 

"  Then  from  that  far-away  land,  where  the  white  spirit 
of  My  Lord  had  gone,  he  whispered  to  me  faintly  his  fare- 
well: 

"  Annunciata!    Querida  mia!    Adios! " 


Y,  •' 


n8  WERNER'S  READINGS 


THE  BALCONY  SCENE  PROM  "CYRANO  DE  BERGERAC." 


EDMOND   ROSTAND. 


[By  permission  of  George  Munro's  Sons.] 
Translated  from  the  French  by  Gladys  Thomas  and  Mary  F.  Guillemard. 

(Cyranp. 
Christian. 
Roxane. 

[Cyrano  de  Bergerac  is  a  poet,  soldier,  and  philosopher  who,  because 
of  his  wit  and  his  sword,  is  admired  and  feared  by  all.  He  has  a  gro- 
tesque physical  deformity, — an  enormous  nose.  The  "shadow  of  his 
profile  on  the  wall  "  keeps  him  from  seeking  the  society  of  women  and, 
though  he  loves  his  cousin,  Roxane,  he  dare  not  try  to  win  her.  Rox- 
ane thinks  she  loves  Christian,  a  handsome  young  man  who  is  as  stupid 
as  he  is  handsome.  Cyrano,  learning  of  their  interest  in  each  other, 
offers  to  coach  Christian  so  he  can  play  the  part  of  lover  acceptably. 
Christian  accepts  the  offer  and  all  goes  well  until  one  evening,  in  Rox- 
ane's  garden,  when  Christian,  growing 'tired  of  "borrowed  love-ma- 
kings," decides  to  speak  for  himself  without  the  aid  of  Cyrano.  He  offends 
Roxane  deeply  by  his  rude,  unpolished  speech,  so  different  from  that  to 
which  she  had  grown  accustomed.  She  tells  him,  "I  hoped  for  cream 
— you  give  me  gruel,"  and  leaving  him,  she  goes  into  her  house. 
Christian  begs  Cyrano,  who  has  been  an  unseen  spectator,  to  come 
once  again  to  his  assistance.] 

Cyrano.      The  night  is  dark.    All  can  be  repaired, 

Although  you  merit  not.     Stand    there,    poor 
wretch, 

Fronting  the  balcony.     I'll  go  beneath 

And  prompt  your  words  to  you. 

Call  her! 
Christian.  Roxane ! 

Roxane  [half  opening  the  casement].     Who  calls  me? 
Chris.     I !    Christian !    I  would  speak  with  you. 
Cyr.  [under  the  balcony,  to  Christian]. 

Good.    Speak  soft  and  low. 
Rox.         No,  you  speak  stupidly ! 
Chris."  Oh,  pity  me! 

Rox.  No !    you  love  me  no  more ! 


AND  RECITATIONS,  No.  22.  119 

Chris,  [prompted  by  Cyrano]. 

You  say — Great  Heaven! 

I  love  no  more  ? — when — I — love  more  and  more ! 
Rox.   [about  to  sliut  the  casement,  but  pausing]. 

Hold !    Tis  a  trifle  better !  ay,  a  trifle ! 
Chris,   [same  play] . 

Love  grew  apace,  rocked  by  the  anxious  beating — 

Of  this  poor  heart,  which  the  cruel  wanton  boy — 

Took  for  a  cradle ! 
Rox.  [coming  out  on  balcony].     That  is  better!    But 

An  if  you  deem  that  Cupid  be  so  cruel, 

You  should  have  stifled  baby-love  in's  cradle ! 
Chris,  [same  play]. 

Ah,  madame,  I  assayed  but  all  in  vain 

This — new-born  babe  is  a  young— Hercules ! 
Rox.    Still  better. 
Chris.  Thus  strangled  he  in  my  heart 

The — serpents  twain,  of— Pride — and  Doubt  t 
Rox.  [leaning  over  the  balcony].      Well  said! 

But  why  so  faltering  ?    Has  mental  palsy 

Seized,  on  your  faculty  imaginative  ? 
Cyr.    [drawing   Christian   under  the    balcony,   and  slip- 
ping into  his  place] . 

Give  pJace !  This  waxes  critical ! 
Rox.  To-day 

Your  words  are  hesitating. 
Cyr.     [imitating  Christian,,  in  a  whisper]. 

Night  has  come. 

In  the  dusk  they  grope  their  way  to  find  your  earV 
Rox.    But  my  words  find  no  such  impediment. 
Cyr.     They  find  their  way  at  once?    Small  wonder  that, 

For  'tis  within  my  heart  they  find  their  home; 

Bethink  how  large  my  heart,  how  small  your  ear ! 

And,  from  fair  heights  descending,  words  fall  fast, 

But  mine  must  mount,  madame,  and  that  takes  time ! 
Rox.    Meseems  that    your  last   words    have     learned  to 

climb. 
Cyr.     With  practice  such  gymnastic  grows  less  hard! 


iao  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Rox.     In  truth,  I  seem  to  speak  from  distant  heights ! 
Cyr.     True,  far  above ;  at  such  a  height  'twere  death 

If  a  hard  word  from  you  fell  on  my  heart. 
Rox.    I  will  come  down. 
Cyr.  No  !     Stay  awhile !     Tis  sweet, 

The  rare  occasion,  when  our  hearts  can  speak, 

Ourselves  unseen,  unseeing! 
Rox.  Why — unseen  ? 

Cyr.     Ay,  it  is  sweet !    Half  hidden, — half  revealed — 

You  see  the  dark  folds  of  my  shrouding  cloak, 

And  I,  the  glimmering  whiteness  of  your  dress; 

I  but  a  shadow — you  a  radiance  fair ! 

Know  you  what  such  a  moment  holds  for  me? 

If  ever  I  were  eloquent— - 
Rox.  You  were ! 

Cyr.     Yet  never  till  to-night  my  speech  has  sprung 

Straight  from  my  heart  as  now  it  springs. 
Rox.  LWhy  not? 

Cyr.     Till  now  I  spoke  haphazard — 
Rox.  What? 

Cyr.  Your  eyes 

Have  beams  that  turn  men  dizzy !    But  to-night 

Methinks  I  shall  find  speech  for  the  first  time ! 
Rox.    'Tis  true,  your  voice  rings  with  a  tone  that's  new. 
Cyr.     [coming  nearer,  passionately]. 

Ay,  a  new  tone !    In  the  tender,  sheltering  dusk 

I  dare   to  be  myself    for    once, — at  last!     [Stops, 
falters.] 

What  say  I  ?    I  know  not ! — Oh,  pardon  me — 

It  thrills  me, — 'tis  so  sweet,  so  novel. 
Rox.  How? 

So  novel? 
Cyr.     [off  his  balance,  trying  to  find  the  thread  of  his  sen- 
tence] . 

Ay, — to  be  at  last  sincere. 

Till  now,  my  chilled  heart,  fearing  to  be  mocked — 
Rox.    Mocked,  and  for  what? 
Cyr.  For  its  mad  beating !    Ay 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22.  xai 

My  heart  has  clothed  itself  with  witty  words 
To  shroud  itself  from  curious  eyes — impelled 
At  times  to  aim  at  a  star,  I  stay  my  hand 
And,  fearing  ridicule, — cull  a  wild  flower ! 

Rox.     A  wild  flower's  sweet. 

Cyr.  Ay !  but  to-night — the  star ! 

Rox.     Oh,  never  have  you  spoken  thus  before ! 

Cyr.     At  last  the  moment  comes  inevitable ! — 

Oh,  woe  for  those  who  never  know  that  moment ! 
When  feeling  love  exists  in  us,  ennobling, 
Each  well-weighed  word    is    futile    and    soul-sad- 
dening ! 

Rox.     Well,  if  that  moment's  come  for  us — suppose  it ! — 
What  words  would  serve  you  ? 

Cyr.  All,  all,  all,  whatever 

That  came  to  me,  e'en  as  they  came,  I'd  fling  them 
In  a  wild  cluster,  not  a  careful  bouquet.  • 
I  love  thee !    I  am  mad !    I  love,  I  stifle ! 
Thy  name  is  in  my  heart  as  in  a  sheep-bell, 
And  as  I  ever  tremble,  thinking  of  thee, 
Ever  the  bell  shakes,  ever  thy  name  ringeth ! 
All  things  of  thine  I  mind,  for  I  love  all  things. 
I  know  that  last  year  on  the  twelfth  of  May-month, 
To  walk  abroad,  one  day  you  changed  your  hair- 
plaits  ! 
I  am  so  used  to  take  your  hair  for  daylight 
That, — like  as  when  the  eye  stares  on  the  sun's  disk, 
One  sees  long  after  a  red  blot  on  all  things — 
So,  when  I  quit  thy  beams,  my  dazzled  vision 
Sees  upon  all  things  a  blonde  stain  imprinted. 

Rox.  [agitated] .     Why,  this  is  love  indeed ! 

Cyr.  Ay,  true,  the  feeling 

Which  fills  me,  terrible  and  jealous,  truly 
Love, — which  is  ever  sad  amid  its  transports! 
Love, — and  yet,  strangely,  not  a  selfish  passion ! 
I  for  your  joy  would  gladly  lay  mine  own  down, — 
E'en  though  you  never  were  to  know  it, — never ! — 
If  but  at  times  I  might — far  off  and  lonely — 


laa  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Hear  some  gay  echo  of  the  joy  I  brought  you! 
Each  glance  of  thine  awakes  in  me  a  virtue, — 
A  novel,  unknown  valor.    Dost  begin,  sweet, 
To  understand?     So  late,  dost  understand  me? 
Feel'st  thou  my  soul,  here,  through  the  darkness 

mounting  ? 
Too  fair  the  night !  Too  fair,  too  fair  the  moment ! 
That  I  should  speak  thus,  and    that    you    should 

hearken ! 
Too  fair !  In  moments  when  my  hopes  rose  proudest, 
I  never  hoped  such  guerdon.    Naught  is  left  me 
But  to  die  now !    Have  words  of  mine  the  power 
To    make    you    tremble, — throned    there    in    the 

branches  ? 
Ay,  like  a  leaf  among  the  leaves,  you  tremble ! 
You  tremble!  for  I  feel — an  if  you  will  it, 
Or  will  it  not — your  hand's  beloved  trembling 
Thrill  through  the  branches,  down  your  sprays  of 

jasmine ! 
[He  kisses  passionately  one  of  the  hanging  tendrils.] 
Rox.     Ay !  I  am  trembling — weeping ! "   I  am  thine ! 

Thou  hast  conquered  all  of  me ! 
Cy£.  v  Then  let  death  come ! 

'Tis  I,  tis  I  myself,  who  conquered  thee  I 
.     .     .     And  when  some  night 
I  enter  Christ's  fair  courts,  and,  lowly  bowed, 
Sweep  with  doffed  casque  the    heaven's    threshold 

blue, 
One  thing  is  left,  that,  void  of  stain  or  smirch, 
I'll  bear  away  despite  of  fate's  endeavor 
This  moment  infinite. 


I  want  some  bach'lor  buttons,  two  cards  of  white  and  blue, 

A  paper  of  pin  needles,  assorted  sizes,  too, 

A  dinner-set  of  china  (china  asters)  painted  pink, 

One  dozen  tea-cups  (buttercups  filled  with  dew  to  drink), 

Some  pep'mint  drops   (the  red  grow  here),  to  keep  the 

children  still, 
And  here's  the  money  (marigolds)  to  pay  the  little  bill. 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22:  x«3 


PATIENCE. 


D  E  patient,  O  be  patient !    Put  your  ear  against  the  earth ; 
•*-*     Listen  there  how  noiselessly  the  germ  o'  the   seed  has 

birth. 
How  noiselessly  and  gently  it  upheaves  its  little  way 
Till  it  parts  the  scarcely  broken  ground  and  the  blade  stands 
up  in  day ! 

Be  patient,  O  be  patient !    The  germs  of  mighty  thought 
Must  have  their  silent  undergrowth,  must  underground  be 

wrought ; 
But  as  sure  as  there's  a  Power  that  makes  the  grass  appear, 
Our  land  shall  be  green  with  liberty,  the  blade-time  shall  be 

here. 

Be  patient,  O  be  patient!    Go  and  watch  the  wheat-ears 

grow, 
So  imperceptibly  that  you  can  mark  nor  change  nor  throe; 
Day  after  day,  day  after  day,  till  the  ear  is  fully  grown ! 
And  then  again  day  after  day  till  the  ripened  field  is  brown. 

Be  patient,  O  be  patient !    Though  yet  our  hopes  are  green 
The  harvest  fields  of  Freedom  shall  be  crowned  with  sunny 

sheen. 
Be  ripening !  be  ripening !  mature  your  silent  way 
Till  the  whole  broad  land  is  tongued  with  fire  on  Freedom's 

harvest-day ! 

A  SCOTCH  WITNESS. 


A  SMALL  Scotch  boy  was  summoned  to  give  evidence 
**•  against  his  father,  who  was  accused  of  making  a  dis- 
turbance in  the  streets.    Said  the  bailie  to  him : 

"  Come,  my  wee  man,  speak  the  truth,  an'  let  us  hear  all 
ye  ken  about  this  affair." 


x«4  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"  Weel,  sir,"  said  the  lad,  "  d'ye  ken  Inverness  Street?  " 

"  I  do,  laddie,"  replied  the  magistrate. 

"  Weel,  ye  gang  along  it  and  turn  into  the  square,  and 
cross  the  square " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  the  bailie,  encouragingly: 

"  And  when  ye  gang  across  the  square  ye  turn  to  the 
right,  and  up  the  High  Street,  and  keep  up  High  Street  till 
ye  come  to  a  pump." 

"  Quite  right,  my  lad;" proceed,"  said  the  magistrate.  "I 
know  the  old  pump  well." 

"  Weel,"  said  the  boy,  with  the  most  infantile  simplicity, 
"  ye  may  gang  and  pump  it,  for  ye'll  no  pump  me." 


PBOPHEOY. 


FLORENCE  MAY   ALT. 

TPON  his  wooden  hobby-horse 
V*     He  galloped  to  the  fray, 
The  sunlight  in  his  ruffled  curls, 

His  laughter  ringing  gay. 
And  she  who  watched  that  reckless  ride 

Across  the  nursery  floor, 
And  smiled  upon  the  paper  hat 

And  the  wooden  sword  he  wore, 
Yet  saw,  through  mist  of  sudden  tears, 

A  vision  strange  and  new, 
Her  little  lad  a  soldier  grown, — 

The  prophecy  come  true. 

Years  after,  when  the  play  was  real, 
And  through  the  crowded  square 

Brave  men  to  battle  marched  away 
Amid  the  trumpet's  blare, 

One  watched  with  all  a  mother's  pride 
Their  captain  strong  and  tall. 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22.  ia$ 

Yet,  as  she  looked  with  loving  eyes, 

The  pageant  faded  all ! 
She  only  saw  a  fair-haired  child 

Who  galloped  to  the  war 
Upon  his  wooden  hobby-horse, 

Across  the  nursery  floor. 


DAT  GAWGY  WATAHMILLON. 


EDMUND  VANCE  COOKE. 


[Prom  "  Rimes  to  Be  Read,"  W.  B.  Conkey,  publisher,  by  permission  of  the 

author.] 

ODAT  Gawgy  watahmillon,  an'  dat  gal  ob  Gawgy  wif 
Jim! 
She  foun'  'm  an'  she  poun'  'm  an'  he  ripe  enough  to  lif '  'm. 
II  take  'm  to  de  well  an'  den  we  cool  'm  in  de  watah, 
An'  we  bress  de  Lawd  for  libin' !  like  a  Gawgy  niggah  ought 
to. 
She  pat  him  an'  she  punk  him,  like  ol'  mammy  wif  de 
chillun, 
.An'  ma  haht  it  done  keep  punkin'  ev'y  time  she  punk  de 
millon. 

II  look  into  huh  yaller  eyes  an'  feel  that  I  can  trus'  'm, 
An'  den  I  take  de  millon  an'  I  drop  'm  down  an'  bus'  'm. 
O  dat  Gawgy  watahmillon  wif  de  sweet  an'  coolin'  flowin'! 
'Poke  youah  face  deep  down,  ma  honey,  an'  jes'  keep  youah 

mouf  a-goin'. 
'Dar  ain't  no  use  ob  talkin',  but  I  'clar  to  Gord  I'se  willin' 
Foh  to  nebah  hab  no  heab'n  'cept  dat  Gawgy  gal  an'  millon ! 

Foh  dey  filled  de  haht  an'  stomach   ob   dis  happy  Gawgy 

niggah, 
An'  he  couldn*  be  no  fuHah,  'less  de  Lohd  done  make  him 

biggah. 


126  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Foh  dy  Lohd !  I'se  done  been  dreamin'  an'  my  haht  is  mos' 

a-breakin' 
An'  ma  lips  dey  is  a-burnin',  an'  ma  stomach  is  a-achin'. 
I  been  dreamin'  ob  de  summah,  an'  ma  mouf  is  jis  a-fillin' 
Foh  dat  honey  gal  ob  Gawgy  an'  dat  Gawgy  watahmillon. 


THE  AUTOGRAPH  BOOK  OF  BLUB. 


H.  W.  JAKEWAY. 


[From  the  Ladies'  Home  Journal,  by  permission  of  the  author  and  the  Curtis  Pub- 
lishing Co.] 

CHE  gave  him  her  book  to  write  in — 

^     The  autograph  book  of  blue — 

And  she  said :  "  Write  it  straight,  now,  Tommy, 

And  something  nice  and  true." 
Stiffly  and  squarely  he  wrote  a  line 

For  his  queen  with  the  eyes  of  blue — 
Proudly,  and  signed  it  "  Tommy  " — 

"  Maggie,  I  love  you  true." 

A  youth  came  home  from  a  college — 

A  student,  grave  and  wise. 
He  looked  at  the  little  old  autograph  book ; 

He  looked  at  her  true  blue  eyes, 
And  he  scrawled,  with  cynical  smiling, 

In  the  old,  old  book  of  blue, 
Of  the  folly  of  love,  and  signed  it 
"    "  Thomas  Reginald  Hugh." 

A  man  came  from  his  lessons 

Learned  in  the  school  of  years, 
Gazed  at  the  little  blue  book  and  dreamed, 

And  gazed,  as  he  dreamed,  through  tears. 
Then  he  looked  and  saw  her  smiling, 

With  tears  in  her  eyes  of  blue, 
And  he  wrote  and  signed  it  "  Tommy  " — 

"  Maggie,  I  love  you  true." 


AND  RECITATIONS   No.  22.  i»j 

THE  STUDENT-HEROES  OP  OUR  WAR. 


CHARLES  W.  ELIOT. 


[At  a  mass  meeting  of  the  members  of  Harvard  University  to  consider 
the  erection  of  some  memorial  for  the  students  who  had  died  in  the 
Hispano-American  war,  President  Eliot  made  an  address,  which  we 
reprint  with  some  account  of  its  reception  by  the  audience.  The  address 
was  preceded  by  the  reading  of  a  letter  from  Colonel  Theodore  Roose- 
velt, of  the  class  of  1880.  Great  applause  greeted  the  reading  of  this 
letter,  and  was  continued  and  prolonged  as  President  Eliot  was  intro- 
duced and  rose  to  speak.  But  at  his  first  words  an  intense  hush  fell 
over  the  assemblage,  and  grew  deeper  as  he  proceeded,  until,  when  he 
ended,  the  audience  seemed  too  profoundly  moved  to  break  it.  It  was 
only  when  he  turned,  took  his  hat,  and  started  to  leave  the  hall,  that  the 
i  spell  of  his  splendid  eloquence  was  broken.  Then  a  mighty  outburst  of 
applause  rang  out  until  the  hall  echoed  again.     President  Eliot  said :] 

OROTHER  ROOSEVELT'S  phrase,  "  gave  their  young 
*-*  lives,"  is  a  common  one  enough;  but  how  much  it 
means!  These  youths  who  died  in  this  Cuban  war  have 
given  what  you  all  are  looking  forward  to  with  intense  hope, 
expectation,  delight,  satisfaction,  and  joy.  Life  is  over  with 
them.  For  you  it  is  just  opening.  Imagine  for  an  instant 
what  they  have  given.  They  can  not  experience  the  joys, 
the  delights,  the  hopes,  which  fill  your  hearts  with  anticipa- 
tion.   Human  life  is  gone  for  them. 

What  did  they  give  their  lives  for  ?  We  have  been  asking 
that  question,  and  sometimes  we  get  an  adverse  answer.  We 
all  have  seen  the  sentiment  that  this  war  was  not  worth  fight- 
ing for,  that  this  war  will  bring  upon  the  country  unforeseen 
evils,  that  the  young  men  had  no  cause  to  go  to  this  war,  that 
educated  young  men  in  particular  ought  to  have  known  bet- 
ter than  to  have  gone  to  such  a  war.  I  do  but  repeat  what  I 
hear.  These  views  seem  to  me  unsound ;  but,  if  sound,  irrele- 
vant. 

What  does  this  building  teach  ?  What  has  it  been  teach- 
ing to  the  youth  of  Harvard  for  thirty  years?  What  does  it 
say  to  the  men  who  have  gone  in  and  out  here  during  their 
whole  college  lives?  Has  it  not  said  to  them :  "  It  is  noble  to 
die  for  your  country?  "  Has  it  not  said  to  them :   "  If  you 


ia8  WERNER'S  READINGS 

die  for  your  country,  your  name  shall  be  written  up  some- 
where on  the  grounds  of  the  college  ?  "  I,  for  one,  feel  that 
Memorial  Hall  has  said  just  that  to  all  those  who  went  to 
this  Cuban  war.  It  has  said  to  them :  "You  shall  be  remem- 
bered here,  if  you  fall." 

Now  was  there  anything  about  the  moral  quality  of  this 
war  that  should  lead  to  the  disappointment  of  this  hope,  to 
the  breaking  of  that  promise  ?  I  can  not  think  so.  We  do  not 
know  to-day  what  the  issues  of  this  war  are  to  be.  How 
much  did  those  young  men  know  about  the  issues  of  this  war 
when  they  went?  How  much  can  any  generation  of  young 
men  probably  know  about  the  issues  of  any  war  to  which 
they  may  be  summoned  by  the  government  of  their  country? 
I  am  sure  the  young  men  of  1861  did  not  know  anything 
about  the  issues  of  the  Civil  war.  They  went  because  they 
loved  their  country  and  because  the  existence  of  their  coun- 
try seemed  to  be  threatened.  They  went  because  they  loved 
the  Union,  and  thought  that  that  Union  was  in  danger. 

Again,  what  is  the  real  strength  of  this  country  among  the 
nations  of  the  earth,  when  we  keep  a  small  standing  army 
and  but  a  small  navy  ?  Why  have  the  opinion  and  the  word 
of  the  United  States  been  respected  among  the  nations  of  the 
earth  when,  to  all  appearances,  we  were  without  the  means 
of  physically  enforcing  them  ourselves  ?  Is  it  not  because  in 
this  free  country,  when  our  government  needs  the  force,  the 
young  men  spring  to  arms.  The  very  reason  why  we  have 
been  able  to  get  on  with  a  standing  army  of  25,000  men 
among  70,000,000  people  is  that  foreign  nations  and  our 
own  people  believe  that,  when  our  government  calls  for 
troops,  the  troops  will  be  forthcoming,  and  that  quickly  and 
without  much  stopping  to  reason  or  to  anticipate  the  issues 
of  the  threatening  strife. 

If  in  the  future  this  country  shall  be  able  to  get  on  well, 
and  hold  a  strong  place  among  the  nations  of  the  earth  with- 
out maintaining  such  armies  and  navies  as  have  burdened 
the  nations  of  Europe,  it  will  be  because  the  other  nations, 
and  we  ourselves,  believe  that,  when  the  government  of  this 
country  makes  its  appeal  to  battle,  the  youth  will  come.  Now 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22.  129 


this  is  just  what  our  comrades  who  have  died  in  this  Cuban 
war  did,  and  I  believe  that  they  should  be  lastingly  com- 
memorated on  these  grounds.  But  I  would  not  advise  that 
any  hasty  action  be  taken  with  regard  to  the  form  of  the  me- 
morial. On  looking  back  on  Memorial  Hall,  I  see  that  it  was 
several  years  after  the  close  of  the  Civil  war  before  this 
building  began  to  rise  on  this  spot ;  and  there  were  good  rea- 
sons for  the  delay. 

We  do  not  yet  know  how  many  graduates  and  sons  of 
Harvard  were  enlisted  in  this  war.  Let  us  not  be  too  quick 
to  imagine  what  form  of  memorial  shall  be  raised  to  these 
friends  of  ours  whose  lives  have  been  given  in  this  war.  Let 
us  declare  here  that  so  far  as  in  us  lies  they  shall  be  worthily 
commemorated ;  but  let  us  wait  until  we  know  how  many  are 
to  be  commemorated.  Let  us  wait  until  we  know  more  than 
we  now  do  about  the  issues  of  this  war. 

It  is  true  that  the  memory  of  those  who  fall  in  any  war  is 
affected  by  the  issues  of  the  war.  There  is  no  doubt  that  men 
hold  in  remembrance  longer  and  more  dearly  those  who 
fought  in  a  war  that  turns  out  to  be  a  war  for  civilization, 
for  the  progress  of  mankind.  Let  us  wait,  then,  until  we 
know  something  more  than  we  now  know  about  the  ulti- 
mate issues  of  the  strife  in  which  our  comrades  fell ;  but  let 
us  absolutely  determine  that  they  shall  be  affectionately  and 
honorably  remembered  here. 


ON  BOARD  THE  VICTORY. 


EDNAH   ROBINSON. 


[From  the  Criterion,  by  permission  of  the  publishers.] 

THHE  Victory  had  been  out  ten  days.     Into  a  fog  of  sea  and 
*      sky  she  had  swept  out  through  the  Golden  Gate. 

Victory !  an  omen  of  good  fortune.  In  the  North  a  golden 
Aurora  had  arisen  and  on  this  first  trip  of  the  Victory, 
her  passenger-list  was  compressed  and  overflowing.     The 


i3o  WERNER'S  READINGS. 

miner  is  a  product  of  luck  and  stakes  his  faith  on  lucky 
names  and  numbers  and  the  Victory  allured. 

It  was  an  unassorted  jumble  of  humanity  with  a  com- 
mon impulse;  their  nature  and  destinies  diverse;  the  prize, 
a  chance  at  fortune,  the  same. 

Down  in  the  dining-saloon  the  ivory  chips  clinked  all 
night  long.  Jack  Androus  and  Silent  Sam,  his  partner,  ran 
a  game  there  between  meals,  beginning  as  soon  as  the  tables 
were  cleared,  and  it  could  not  be  doubted  that  between  them 
would  be  divided  one  of  the  largest  fortunes  to  come  out  of 
the  frozen  treasure-house.  Among  the  passengers  was  a 
woman  called  Madge,  traveling  alone ;  Bill  Terrill  and  wife, 
who  affixed  without  consciousness  their  profession  to  their 
signatures, — gamblers;  Mrs.  Donahue  and  her  coquettish 
daughter,  Mamie,  who  had  been  tempted  from  their  routine 
of  feeding  'men  in  Arizona  to  a  more  lucrative  post  in 
Alaska ;  miners ;  a  few  isolated  reporters ;  cooks. 

There  was  but  one  child  on  board.  She  discouraged  all 
advances,  especially  the  women's.  Her  shy  manner  did  not 
hint  of  her  world-washed  vision.  Dragged  about  from  camp 
to  camp,  a  motherless  girl,  she  had  studied  human  nature 
when  other  children  of  her  age  were  learning  their  alphabet. 

Not  even  to  her  father  was  Polly  a  taking  child.  He 
thought  her  sullen  and  disliked  the  frightened  look  her  wide 
eyes  perpetually  were.  MacLean,  who  was  returning  to  his 
claims  on  the  Yukon,  took  a  puzzled  fancy  to  Polly  and  he 
was  the  only  one  she  did  not  repel.  He  tried  to  rouse  her 
ambition  by  prophesying  the  fortune  to  be  hers,  but  Polly's 
eyes  never  glistened,  and  MacLean  often  caught  himself 
wondering  what  went  on  in  that  quiet  little  head. 

The  tenth  morning  out,  off  the  coast  of  Unalaska,  a  storm 
came  up  that  drove  the  passengers  for  warmth  and  entertain- 
ment into  the  social  hall  where  the  women  always  congre- 
gated. There  was  a  high  sea  on  and  the  winds  were  threat- 
ening destruction  to  the  dauntless  little  ship  whose  creaking 
timbers  buffeted  grimly  with  the  huge  waves  that  washed 
up  over  the  hurricane  deck.  Polly's-  wide,  terrified  eyes  had 
drawn  MacLean  from  the  smoking-room,  and  he  had  gone 


•  AND  RECITATIONS  N(rr 22.  131 

in  search  of  her.  The  Victory  was  pitching  and  rolling,  and 
he  had  to  grope  his  way  by  the  rail,  a  heavy  wave  breaking 
over  him  as  he  opened  the  door. 

He  was  wiping  the  salt  from  his  eyes  and  beard  when  a 
string  of  oaths  greeted  him.  He  turned  to  Polly,  who  was 
in  her  accustomed  place,  and  her  apathy  again  struck  him. 
Scenes  like  this  were  nothing  to  him,  but  what  was  her  father 
thinking  of  ? 


"  The  only  gentleman  is  the  gambler,"  was  Jack  An- 
drous's  unprejudiced  challenge. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  gambler  refusing  to  succor  dis- 
tress ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Terrill.  "  Where  are  ministers  that  can 
be  said  the  same  of  ?  Keep  your  ministers  and  give  me  the 
gamblers,  say  I." 

The  applause  was  punctuated  by  oaths.  Mamie  Donahue 
enlisted : 

"  The  minister  is  a  hypocrite  who  makes  his  bread  out 
of  what  he  professes,  but  the  gambler  is  what  he  says  he  is 
and  no  more.  I  have  never  had  a  friend  who  was  not  a 
gambler  or  an  atheist,  and  I  never  want  any  other.  They  are 
the  only  gentlemen." 

Mrs.   Donahue  seized  the  staff: 

"  I  know  a  case.  A  poor  man  got  into  trouble.  Who 
came  forward  to  help  him?  Ministers?  Parsons?  No,  the 
gamblers!  If  I  need  help,  I'll  turn  to  my  own  kind.  Don't 
talk  to  me  of  your  parsons " 

"  Who's  going  to  ?  "  interrupted  Mrs.  Terrill,  her  voice 
pitched  high  above  the  tempest.  "  Not  I  for  one.  I've  been 
a  gambler's  wife  for  twenty  years  and  I  know !  The  parsons 
are  hypocrites !  " 

Jack   Androus    raised    his  glass. 

"  We're  all  with  you, — atheists !  Mrs.  Terrill  leads. 
Here,  you  fellows,  hold  up  your  hands !  This  world,  death, 
and  forgetf  ulness !  Who  believes  in  a  fairy  tale  fit  for 
women  and  children?  " 

There  was  a  hurried  rally  round  the  colors, 


1 3a  WERNER'S  READINGS, 

"  Death  and  f  orgetf ulness !  " 

"  Nothing  beyond !  " 

MacLean  alone  was  silent;  but  sharp  eyes  marked  him. 

"  How  about  you,  MacLean  ?  " 

He  smiled  an  evasion,  but  something  impelled  him  to  drag 
in  Polly. 

"  And  you,  Polly,  what  do  you  believe?  " 

It  was  as  if  a  clarion  had  sounded.  A  thrill  ran  through 
her  frame  and  crimsoned  her  face.  She  gave  a  frightened 
glance  around  the  press  of  quizzical  faces  and  helplessly  back 
to  MacLean,  Who  regretted  the  panic  in  that  shy  breast  and 
would  have  retracted  the  question  but  it  was  too  late.  The 
trumpet  call  shook  her  to  her  feet.  She  tried  to  speak,  but 
the  frightened  voice  stuck  in  her  throat ;  another  effort  and 
the  voice,  fearful  of  its  own  temerity,  broke  through  its 
sheath,  clear  as  a  bell : 

"  I  believe  in  God,  the  Father  Almighty — " 

MacLean  caught  his  breath.     She  had  responded. 

"  Maker  of  heaven  and  earth — " 

Outside  the  Victory  was  tossing  helplessly,  but  Polly's 
voice  rose  triumphantly  above  the  storm. 

"  And  in  Jesus  Christ,  our  Lord !  " 

A  boyish  scene  unrolled  before  MacLean  and  the  neglected 
words  came  back.  His  voice  self-consciously  joined  Polly's, 
and  he  felt  rather  than  heard  a  reenforcement  from  the  other 
side  of  the  room. 

"  On  the  right  hand  of  God—" 

The  voices  now  rang  out  clear,  and  two  men  stood  up. 
There  was  a  sudden  awed  hush  as  the  Victory  shuddered 
tremulously  to  the  crest  of  a  watery  mountain,  and  then 
sank  into  an  abyss-like  trough  that  threatened  to  swallow 
its  victim.  In  the  dining-saloon  there  was  a  crash  of  broken 
china  and  some  women  screamed.  The  thickening  darkness 
added  to  the  panic,  but  a  young  voice  broke  through : 

"  He  shall  come  to  judge  the  quick  and  the  dead — " 

The  woman  called  Madge  broke  into  hysterical  sobbing, 
but  the  chorus  swept  on  to  "  the  forgiveness  of  sins."  All 
of  the  chorus  were  standing  now,     Down-stairs  the  clink  of 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22. 


133 


chips  had  stopped,  the  waiters  stood  by  the  steps,  the  stew- 
ard's cap  was  off.  The  hard  crowd  had  remembered  its 
childhood  and  stood  in  spirit  by  its  mother's  knee.  In  triumph 
the  chorus  rang  to  a  close : 

"  The  Resurrection  of  the  body  and  the  Life  Everlasting. 
Amen ! " 


LINETTE. 


FLORENCE  FOLSOM. 


[By  permission  of  the  author.] 

"TO-DAY  we  are  poor; 
'      But  I  buy  Linette 
A  crystal  and  silver 
Vinaigrette ! 

To  the  woods  we  go 

For  our  holiday, 
But  the  homeward  ride 

I  can  not  pay. 

I  am  not  ashamed 

To  be  so  poor; 
When  my  coin  is  gone 

My  thoughts  endure. 

The  vinaigrette 

She  may  always  keep ; 
And  her  limbs  will  rest 

In  a  long  night's  sleep ! 


To-day  we  are  rich 
With  a  poem's  wage. 

As  a  bird  from  the  door 
Of  his  opened  cage, 


134  WERNER'S  READINGS. 

I  rush  from  our  garret 
And  buy  Linette 

Violets  blue, 

.With  white  dew  wet ! 

Music  and  perfume, 
Color  and  light, 

Are  Linette' s  and  mine 
Until-  falls  the  night. 

Poor  as  before, 

To  our  nest  we  creep, 

But  we  have  each  other 
And  youth  and  sleep. 


KATIE  AN'  MB. 


EDMUND  VANCE  COOKE. 


[Prom  "  Rimes  to  Be  Read,"  W.  B.  Conkey,  publisher,  by  permission  of  the 

author.] 

I/'  ATIE  an'  me  a'n't  ingaged  anny  moor. 

1^-     Och,  but  the  heart  of  me's  breakin'  f er  sure ! 

The  moon  has  turned  grane  an'  the^sun  has  turned  yallow, 

An'  Oi  am  turned  both  an'  a  different  fallow. 

The  poipe  of  me  loiftoime  is  losin'  its  taste; 

Some  illigant  whiskey  is  goin'  to  waste ; 

Me  heart  is  that  impty  an'  also  me  arrum, 

Pertaities  an'  bacon  have  lost  all  their  charrum. 

An'  Oi  feel  like  a  tombstone,  wid  crape  on  the  dure, 

Since  Katie  an'  me  a'n't  ingaged  anny  moor. 

Yit  most  of  the  world  is  a-movin'  alang 
As  if  there  was  nawthin'  at  all  goin'  wrang. 
Oi  notice  the  little  pigs  lie  in  the  mud, 
An'  the  fool  of  a  cow  is  still  chewin'  her  cud ; 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22.  135 


The  sky  is  still  blue  an'  the  grass  is  still  bright ; 
The  stars  shine  in  hivin  in  pacef ul  delight ; 
The  little  waves  dance  on  the  brist  of  the  lake ; 
Tim  Donnelly's  dead  an'  they're  havin'  a  wake, 
An'  the  world's  rich  in  joy !  an'  it's  only  me  poor, 
Since  Katie  an'  me  a' n't  ingaged  anny  moor. 

She  was  always  that  modest  an'  swate,  Oi  declare 

She  w'u'd  blush  full  as  rid  as  her  illigant  hair 

At  the  t'ought  of  another  man  stalin'  the  taste 

Of  her  lips  or  another  man's  arrum  round  her  waist. 

An'  now — och,  McCarney,  luk  out,  or  Oi'll  break 

Yer  carcass  in  fragmints  an'  dance  at  yer  wake, 

As  you're  dancin'  at  Donnelly's !     What  sh'u'd  Oi  fear? 

Purgutory  ?    Not  mooch,  f er  the  same  is  right  here, 

Wid  me  heart  on  the  briler,  an'  niver  a  cure, 

Since  Katie  an'  me  a'n't  ingaged  anny  moor. 


SUNSHINE  JOHNSON. 


C  EEING  the  two  men  together  and  knowing  that  one  of 
***  them  was  a  murderer,  there  was  one  chance  in  a  thou- 
sand that  you  would  have  chosen  the  right  man  for  the 
criminai. 

The  white  man  was  seated  on  an  easy  canvas  camp-chair ; 
he  was  a  tall,  thin  man,  with  a  stern,  forbidding  look  upon 
his  face  that  might  have  been  caused  by  remorse.  There 
were  certain  inflexible  lines  about  his  mouth  that  showed 
him  to  be  a  man  of  great  force  of  character.  He  was  an  un- 
erring judge  of  human  nature  and  had  come  to  believe  that 
he  could  not  make  a  mistake.  Nevertheless,  he  trusted  peo- 
ple whom  no  one  else  would  think  of  trusting,  and  his  trust 
was  seldom  misplaced. 

The  black  man  who  stood  before  him,  receiving  some  in- 
structions, had  the  simple,  good-natured  expression  so  often 
found  in  the  negro  race.  It  seemed  all  he  could  do  to  keep 
his  broad  mouth  from  relaxing  into  a  smile,  and  only  the  fact 


I36  WERNER'S  READINGS 

that  he  was  talking  to  the  superintendent  of  the  penitentiary 
could  keep  down  his  exuberant  good  nature.  This  man 
was  known  throughout  the  camp  as  Sunshine  Johnson, — a 
murderer  in  for  life.  Yet  in  his  arms  rested  Jackson  Flint's 
fair-haired  little  daughter ;  her  face  pressed  close  against  his 
dusky  one,  her  arms  around  the  negro's  neck.  This  was  one 
of  the  men  Jackson  Flint  trusted. 

If  visitors,  attracted  by  his  name  or  by  his  beaming  coun- 
tenance, questioned  Sunshine  about  his  crime,  he  would 
stand  first  on  one  foot  and  then  on  the  other,  while  a  dazed, 
hopeless  look  grew  in  his  eyes. 

"  Well,  you  see,  massa,  I  s'pec'  I  done  killed  de  man — he 
dead  anyhow  an'  I  s'pec'  I  killed  him — but  you  see,  sah,  I 
don't  recollect  nufin'  tall  about  it,  sah,  for  I  was  drunk  at  de 
time,  sah.  I'se  powerful  sorry  I  done  it,  if  I  did  done  it," 
and  Sunshine  would  look  appealingly  at  the  questioner. 

People  visiting  this  penitentiary  for  the  first  time  were 
surprised  to  find  how  little  the  place  was  protected.  Here 
and  there  were  tall  board  erections,  in  which  were  stationed 
men  with  rifles  or  shotguns.  There  was  no  wall  about  the 
camp;  its  only  protection  was  a  picket  fence,  which  might 
easily  have  been  leaped.  But  although  a  man  might  have 
leaped  the  fence,  and  though  he  might  have  escaped  the  shots 
from  the  towers,  his  escape  was  well-nigh  impossible ;  he  had 
to  cross  the  mountains  in  order  to  get  away  and  a  telegraph 
station  in  the  convict  settlement  quickly  apprized  all  civiliza- 
tion that  such  and  such  a  man  had  escaped.  It  usually  hap- 
pened that  about  a  week  or  ten  days  after  an  attempt  to  es- 
cape, a  gaunt,  starved  man  came  out  of  the  wilderness  and 
gave  himself  up  at  the  first  place  where  he  could  find  some- 
thing to  eat. 

On  the  day  of  my  story  there  had  been  a  fierce  storm 
among  the  mountains.  The  clouds  seemed  to  become  en- 
tangled with  the  peaks  until  they,  like  the  prisoners,  could  not 
get  away,  but  poured  themselves  down  on  the  little  valley  un- 
til the  little  river  became  a  roaring  torrent  and  gleamed  white 
amid  the  trees.  Toward  evening  the  clouds  parted,  and  the 
pale  sickle  of  a  moon  hung  its  light  over  the  quiet  valley. 


AND.  RECITATIONS  No.  22.  137 

Jackson  Flint  was  sitting  on  his  veranda  smoking  his 
corn-cob  pipe,  when  a  burst  of  childish  laughter  fell  upon  his 
ears,  and,  looking  round,  he  saw  his  little  daughter  lashing 
Sunshine  as  if  he  were  a  horse,  while  that  good-natured  indi- 
vidual trotted  up  and  down  patiently. 

"  Hello,  Sunshine !  What  are  you  doing  with  Dorothy  at 
this  hour  of  the  night?  " 

At  the  sound  of  the  master's  voice  they  came  to  an  im- 
mediate pause  and  even  the  child  hushed  its  laughter. 

"  Well  you  see,  massa — little  Dot,  sah,  had  to  stay  indoors 
all  day  on  account  of  the  rain  and  her  ma  thought  as  how  she 
might  come  out  a  little  while  to-night,  and  if  you  please, 
Massa  Flint,  little  Dot  would  like  to  stay  up  very  much  and 
see  de  midnight  express." 

"  Nonsense,  Dorothy,  you  don't  want  to  stay  up  as  late  as 
that,  do  you?  " 

The  child  made  no  answer ;  but  leaned  over  and  whispered 
in  Sunshine's  ear. 

"  If  you  please,  little  Dot  would  like  it  very  much,  sah." 

"  Did  Dorothy  tell  you  to  say  that,  Sunshine  ?  Well,  it's 
all  right  if  her  mother  says  so." 

The  midnight  express  was  a  great  sight  to  see  on  a  dark 
night.  It  came  in  view  from  out  a  tunnel,  then  disappeared 
and  came  in  view  again  and  the  long  line  of  lights  seemed 
to  climb  the  mountains. 

It  was  almost  time  for  the  train,  when  Jackson  Flint  was 
startled  by  a  shrill  cry  from  his  child,  and,  turning  round,  the 
sight  he  saw  the  next  moment  simply  paralyzed  him.  Sun- 
shine had  snatched  a  lantern  from  the  steps  of  his  quarters 
and,  shouting  to  Dorothy :  "  Run  into  de  house,  honey,  run 
into  de  house,"  he  had  leaped  the  picket  fence  and  made  off 
toward  the  wood. 

The  child  clung,  frightened  and  crying,  to  the  palings,  but 
the  hoarse  voice  of  Jackson  Flint  awoke  the  whole  camp : 

"  Come  back  here,  you  black  rascal !  " 

But  Sunshine  only  waved  his  lantern  and  went  on.  Flint 
felt  for  his  six-shooter  and  the  next  instant  the  sharp  click 
of  a  revolver  rang  out  on  the  midnight  air. 


I38  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"  Run  into  de  house,  honey,  run  into  de  house,"  shouted 
Sunshine,  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  and  then  Flint  saw  that  his 
own  little  curly-haired  girl  was  in  a  direct  line  between  him 
and  the  escaping  convict. 

As  a  general  thing,  he  was  an  unerring  shot,  but  his  hand 
trembled,  as  he  shot  six  times  over  Sunshine's  head  and  then 
flung  the  empty  revolver  to  the  ground.  Each  time  he  shot, 
Sunshine  waved  the  lantern  and  went  on. 

Flint  called  to  the  men  in  the  towers : 

"  Why  don't  you  shoot?  " 

Three  shots  rang  out.  This  time  Sunshine  uttered  a  cry 
of  pain,  but  he  went  on  and  the  next  instant  he  was  out  of 
sight. 

Pale-faced  men  came  up  from  every  direction. 

"  Who's  escaped,  sir?  " 

"  Johnson." 

"Not  Sunshine?" 

"  What  other  Johnson  is  there  here?  " 

"  Shall  we  send  a  guard  out,  sir  ?  " 

"No.  Go  to  bed." 

Flint  paced  back  and  forth  for  over  an  hour,  muttering 
under  his  breath : 

"  He's  sure  to  be  caught." 

The  bitterness  of  it  all  was  that  everybody  knew  he  had 
trusted  Sunshine  and  now  his  trust  had  been  betrayed.  At 
last  he  sat  down  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  Suddenly 
a  soft  voice  close  to  his  elbow  made  him  spring  to  his  feet. 

"Massa  Flint!" 

There,  torn  by  the  brambles  and  bushes,  his  clothes  in 
rags,  the  lantern  still  on  his  arm,  stood  Sunshine. 

"  You  scoundrel !  What  did  you  do  it  for  ?  " 

"  You  didn't  hear  it,  did  you,  Massa  Flint?  " 

"Hear  it?  hear  what?" 

"  De  landslide,  massa.  I  heerd  it  a-comin'  'way  down  de 
mountain,  an'  I  knowed  I  had  to  run  if  I  was  to  sabe  dat 
train.   But  I  did  sabe  it,  Massa  Flint." 

A  great  lump  came  in  Flint's  throat  and  he  couldn't  speak, 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22.  139 

but  he  reached  down  both  his  hands  and  put  them  on  Sun- 
shine's shoulders. 

"  So  you  saved  the  train,  did  you,  Sunshine  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Massa  Flint.  Dey  want  a  shublin'  gang  directly. 
De  conductor  am  a-comin'  right  up." 

"  All  right,  Sunshine.  Why,  what's  the  matter  with  your 
arm  ?  "  for,  as  the  light  from  the  lantern  flashed  on  it,  Sun- 
shine's left  arm  hung  limp  and  helpless  and  Flint  could  see 
the  blood  trickle  down  the  fingers. 

"  It  got  hit  a  little  wid  de  shotgun.     'Tain't  no  matter." 

"  Go  into  the  house,  Sunshine.  I'll  send  a  doctor  directly." 

"  Hello,"  called  the  conductor,  coming  up  just  then, 
"  what  are  you  trying  to  do  with  us  down  here  ?  Are  you 
trying  to  smash  us  up?  " 

"  Well,  you  might  have  been  smashed  up  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  one  of  my  niggers." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  the  conductor;  but  he  didn't  know 
the  risk  Sunshine  had  run. 

"  How  long  do  you  think  it'll  take  us  to  get  away  ?  The 
Governor  of  North  Carolina  is  on  board,  and  he's  a  bit  im- 
patient at  the  delay." 

"  So.  The  Governor's  on  board,  is  he  ?  Well,  I'm  glad 
of  that,  for  I  want  him  to  pardon  a  lifer." 

"  Yes?  Well,  I  wouldn't  ask  him  just  now  if  I  were  you. 
He's  not  in  the  best  of  humors." 

"  He'll  never  be  in  a  better  humor  than  he  is  this  minute, 
for  what  I  want  him  to  do,  for  if  it  hadn't  been  for  my  lifer, 
he  and  his  private  car  would  be  at  the  bottom  of  the  nearest 
ravine." 

And  the  Governor  pardoned  Sunshine  Johnson. 


Tying  her  shoe,  I  knelt  at  Daphne's  feet. 
My  fumbling  fingers  found  such  service  sweet, 
And  lingered  o'er  the  task  till,  when  I  rose, 
Cupid  had  bound  me  captive  in  her  bows. 


140  WERNER'S  READINGS. 


ALL  FOB  A  MAM. 


HELEN  M.  WINSLOWo 


[By  permission  of  the  author.] 

LJE  had  flirted  at  Bar  Harbor  and  at  Narragansett  Pier, 
1  *     He  had  thoroughly  "  done  Europe^"  and  at  last  began 

to  fear 
That  life  was  after  all  to  prove  a  horrid,  beastly  bore 
And  love — as  'tis  in  novels  and  young  visions — was  no  more, 
When  by  the  merest  circumstance  he  took  a  sudden  fancy 
To  go  to  Pottstown  Corners  and  visit  old  Aunt  Nancy; 
And  never  dreamed  that  Pottstown  opened  into  Paradise 
Or  that  his  Eve  was  singing  there,  with  modest,   shining 

eyes, 
"  Oh !    for  a  man —  oh !    for  a  man —  a  mansion  in  the 

skies!" 

The  mischief  happened  this  way :  In  Pottstown  etiquette 
To  stay  away  from  meeting  is  a  sin  they  can't  forget, 
So  when  Aunt  Nancy  asked  him  and  he  set  out  to  refuse, 
Her  look  of  horror  silenced  him,  he  muttered :    "  Ah — 

excuse — 
I  mean,  I'll  go," — and  meekly  walked,  in  all  his  best  attire, 
The  mile-long  dusty  street;  then  slept,  until  the  village  choir 
Aroused  him  with  the  closing  hymn  and,  much  to  his  sur- 
prise, 
A  sweet- voiced  angel  seemed  to  lead  with  pure,  uplifted  eyes, 
"  Oh !  for  a  man —  oh !  for  a  man —  a  mansion  in  the 
skies!" 

And  when  the  congregation,  in  that  honest  way  they  love, 
Faced  straight  about  and  gazed  into  the  singing-loft  above, 
He  turned  and  stared,  enchanted,  at  a  girl  who  seemed  to  lack 
Naught  but  a  tarnished  golden  frame  and  canvas  at  her  back 
To  make  her  some  old  picture  from  Florence  or  from  Munich 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22.  141 

(An  illusion  carried  out  by  her  hat  and  her  white  tunic) . 

He  stared,  enraptured,  in  a  way  that  hymn  don't  authorize. 

She  knew,  and  blushed,  and  sang  again,  with  shy  and  down- 
cast eyes 

"  Oh !  for  a  man —  oh !  for  a  man —  a  mansion  in  the 
skies!" 

I  blush  to  tell — but  after  that  no  deacon  in  the  church 
More  constant  was  at  meeting,  more  eager  in  the  search 
Apparently  for  Scripture  lore ;  and  although  he  had  been 
A  worshipper  of  Wagner — Valkyrie — Lohengrin, 
He  sat  in  adoration  while  that  village  choir  sang  "  Mere," 
And  cherubim  and  seraphim  seemed  singing  in  his  ear. 
Old  "  China,"  "  Webb,"  and  "  Lenox  "  were  choicest  har- 
monies, 
But  best  of  all  was  when  she  sang  with  sweet  and  drooping 

eyes 
"  Oh !    for  a  man —  oh !    for  a  man —  a  mansion  in  the 
skies!" 

But  why  prolong  the  story,  since  love  will  find  a  way? 
He  lingered  with  Aunt  Nancy  for  many  and  many  a  day, 
And  spite  of  saintly  likeness  to  Madonnas  she  was  human 
And  with  a  heart  that  could  be  won  like  any  other  woman ; 
So  now  he  roves  no  longer  but  is  quite  the  business  man 
And  likes  when  evening  comes  to  sit  and  look  on — when  he 

can — 
While  she  bends  o'er  the  cradle  with  its  silken  draperies 
And  croons  in  low  and  hushing  voice,  with  happy  love-lit 

eyes  : 
"  My  little  man,  my  little  man,  must  shut  his  sleepy  eyes." 


No  way  has  been  found  for  making  heroism  easy  even  for 
the  scholar.  Labor,  iron  labor,  is  for  him.  The  world  was 
created  as  an  audience  for  him,  the  atoms  of  which  it  is  made 
are  opportunities. 


14a  WERNER'S  READINGS 


DEATH  OP  HAROLD. 


CHARLES  DICKENS. 

TN  the  middle  of  the  month  of  October,  in  the  year  1066, 
r  the  Normans  and  the  English  came  front  to  front.  All 
night  the  armies  lay  encamped  before  each  other,  in  a  part  of 
the  country  then  called  Senlac,  now  called  (in  remembrance 
of  the  event)  Battle.  With  the  first  dawn  of  day  they  arose^ 
There,  in  the  faint  light,  were  the  English  on  a  hill,  a  wood 
behind  them,  in  their  midst  a  royal  banner  representing  a 
fighting  warrior  woven  in  gold  thread  and  adorned  with 
precious  stones. 

Beneath  the  banner,  as  it  rustled  in  the  wind,  stood  King 
Harold  on  foot,  with  two  of  his  remaining  brothers  by  his 
side ;  around  them,  still  and  silent  as  the  dead,  clustered  the 
whole  English  army,  every  soldier  covered  by  his  shield,  and 
bearing  in  his  hand  his  dreaded  English  battle-ax.  On  an 
opposite  hill,  in  three  lines — archers,  foot-soldiers,  horse- 
men— was  the  Norman  force.  Of  a  sudden,  arose  a  great 
battle-cry :  "  God's  Rood !  Holy  Rood !  "  The  Normans 
then  came  sweeping  down  the  hill  to  attack  the  English. 

The  English,  keeping  side  by  side  in  a  great  mass,  cared 
no  more  for  the  showers  of  Norman  arrows  than  if  they  had 
been  showers  of  Norman  rain.  When  the  Norman  horsemen 
rode  against  them  with  their  battle-axes  they  cut  men  and 
horses  down.  The  Normans  gave  way.  The  English  pressed 
forward.  A  cry  went  forth  among  the  Norman  troops  that 
Duke  William  was  killed.  Duke  William  took  off  his  hel- 
met in  order  that  his  face  might  be  distinctly  seen,  and  rode1 
along  the  line  before  his  men.   This  gave  them  courage. 

As  they  turned  again  to  face  the  English,  some  of  their 
Norman  horses  divided  the  pursuing  body  of  the  English 
from  the  rest,  and  thus  all  that  foremost  part  of  the  English 
army  fell,  fighting  bravely.  The  main  body  still  remaining 
firm,  heedless  of  the  Norman  arrows,  and  with  their  battle- 


'AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22.  143 

axes  cutting  down  the  crowds  of  horsemen,  when  they  rode 
up,  like  forests  of  young  trees,  Duke  William  pretended  to 
retreat.  The  eager  English  followed.  The  Norman  army 
closed  again,  and  fell  upon  them  with  great  slaughter. 

"  Still,"  said  Duke  William,  "  there  are  thousands  of  the 
English  firm  as  rocks  around  their  king.  Shoot  upward, 
Norman  archers,  that  your  arrows  may  fall  upon  their 
faces!" 

The  sun  rose  high  and  sank,  and  the  battle  still  raged. 
Through  all  the  wild  October  day  the  clash  and  din  re- 
sounded in  the  air.  In  the  red  sunset,  in  the  white  moon- 
light, heaps  upon  heaps  of  dead  men  lay  strewn,  a  dreadful 
spectacle,  all  over  the  ground. 

King  Harold,  wounded  with  an  arrow  in  the  eye,  was 
nearly  blind.  His  brothers  were  already  killed.  Twenty 
Norman  knights,  whose  battered  armor  had  flashed  fiery 
and  golden  in  the  sunshine  all  day  long,  and  now  looked  sil- 
very in  the  moonlight,  dashed  forward  to  seize  the  royal 
banner  from  the  English  knights  and  soldiers,  still  faithfully 
collected  around  their  blinded  king.  The  king  received  a 
mortal  wound  and  dropped.  The  English  broke  and  fled  as 
the  Normans  rallied,  and  the  day  was  lost. 

Oh,  what  a  sight  beneath  the  moon  and  the  stars,  when 
lights  were  shining  in  the  tent  of  the  victorious  Duke  Wil- 
liam— which  was  pitched  near  the  spot  where  Harold  fell — 
and  he  and  his  knights  were  carousing  within!  Soldiers 
with  torches,  going  slowly  to  and  fro  without,  sought  for 
the  corpse  of  Harold  among  the  piles  of  dead ;  and  the  war- 
rior worked  in  golden  thread  and  precious  stones  lay  low, 
all  torn  and  soiled  with  blood ;  and  the  three  Norman  Lions 
kept  watch  over  the  field. 


Po'  liT  feller,  los'  in  de  snow, 

En  nowhar's  ter  go — en  nowhar's  ter  go ! 

But  a  light  is  shinin'  fer  de  feet  dat  roam, 

En  someone's  a-callin' :   "  Come  home — come  home ! 

En  some  er  dese  times — when  de  Lawd  think  bes' — 

Dey'll  all  come  home  ter  His  lovin'  breV ! 


144  WERNER'S  READINGS 


A  ROSE  OP  ROME. 


GEORGE   HENRY   GALPIN. 


I 


[Prom  "  Threads  from  the  Woof,"  by  permission  of  the  author.] 

T  was  the  day  of  the  great  games  in  Rome.  The  long, 
curving  sides  of  the  amphitheatre  seemed  like  huge  mo- 
saics with  the  different  colors  of  the  rugs  and  robes  thrown 
over  them.  Here  a  dull,  gray  cloak  was  cast  loosely  over  a 
jutting  cornice,  the  ends  dragging  in  the  sand.  There  a  rich, 
crimson  scarf  threw  into  strong  relief  the  fair  white  arm 
resting  upon  it.  The  colors  and  the  shadows  seemed  to  the 
observer  to  be  blended  into  a  great,  beautiful  web,  which 
appeared  to  undulate  from  time  to  time  as  the  people  moved 
forward  or  rose  in  their  seats  to  cheer  the  entrance  of  some 
patrician  or  renowned  soldier.  Just  over  the  east  gate  a  pure 
white  scarf  caught  the  eye,  as  it  floated  out,  in  strong  con- 
trast to  its  gayer  neighbors.  Plucking  at  the  scarf  with 
nervous  fingers,  that  now  and  then  clenched  themselves  un- 
der the  folds,  was  a  young  girl  of  perhaps  twenty  years  of 
age.  Her  dress  and  manner  told  of  patrician  blood.  Her  po- 
sition would  have  led  one  to  think  that  it  had  been  chosen 
out  of  a  desire  to  see  and  enjoy,  to  the  fullest  extent,  all  that 
passed  in  the  fatal  ring  below.  A  look  at  her  eyes  and  the 
tense  lines  about  her  mouth  would  have  quickly  shown  how 
utterly  she  abhorred  it  all.  A  reader  of  human  nature  might 
have  said  that  some  vital  issue  was  to  come,  and  that  she  was 
there  to  share  it.  The  clanging  of  the  great  bronze  gate  be- 
neath aroused  her,  and  at  the  braying  of  the  trumpets,  which 
announced  the  coming  of  the  emperor,  she  half  turned  as  if 
to  flee,  but,  after  a  second's  hesitation,  she  again  faced 
toward  the  arena  and  remained  standing,  motionless.  The 
train  of  the  emperor  passed  slowly  in  and  around  toward  the 
imperial  box.  A  pause,  followed  by  a  shout  of  "  Long  live 
the  emperor,"  announced  that  the  rabble  had  caught  sight  of 
him  for  whom  the  games  waited,  the  young  emperor  of 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22.  145 

Rome,  and  in  a  moment  more  he  had  stepped  from  beneath 
the  shadow  of  the  gate  out  into  the  sunlight. 

The  carriage  of  the  man  commanded  the  homage  of  all, 
and  yet  there  was  a  sensual,  domineering  look  in  his  face, 
which  prevented  his  subjects  from  giving  him  their  respect 
or  trust.  He  ruled  by  cruelty  and  fear,  and,  like  all  despots, 
was  most  cordially  hated  in  return  for  it.  A  wreath  fluttered 
down  from  a'point  just  above  the  head  of  the  young  girl  and 
struck  the  emperor's  shoulder.  He  turned  and  saw,  not  the 
donor  of  the  wreath  but  the  fair  vision  of  the  girl — just  out 
of  reach, — a  vision  of  purity  and  grace  which  would  have 
compelled  respect  from  any  other  man.  An  eager,  gloating 
look  came  into  his  eyes,  but  it  was  met  with  a  glance  so  fear- 
less and  scornful  that  he  turned  with  a  muttered  oath  and, 
amid  the  huzzas  and  cheers,  took  his  seat  beneath  the  purple 
and  gold  canopy  at  the  side  of  the  oval.  As  many  knew,  it 
was  not  the  first  repulse  that  the  Roman  emperor  had  re- 
ceived at  the  hands  of  the  beautiful  Nadia. 

And  now  the  games  commenced.  The  pageants  came  and 
went,  the  sham  fights  passed,  the  runners  gained  the  goal  in 
turn,  and  through  it  all  the  white  figure  over  the  great  gate 
sat  motionless,  unheeding.  At  last  came  the  gladiators,  with 
muscles  playing  and  sinews  trembling  like  the  strings  of 
some  fine  instrument  under  the  touch  of  a  master  hand,  their 
eagerness  to  be  conquerors  overcoming  their  fear  of  death. 
Three  contests  had  been  fought,  and  the  fourth  begun,  when 
the  figure  of  a  man  in  the  dress  of  a  gladiator  was  seen  walk- 
ing rapidly  toward  the  east  gate.  A  glad  light  leaped  into 
the  girl's  eager  eyes  as  she  watched  him  approach,  and,  as 
he  came  within  hearing,  she  leaned  far  out  and  spoke : 

"  Ah,  the  gods  are  good !   You  have  come,  my  Glaucus." 

"  Aye,  Nadia ;  to  gain  my  prize !  Give  me  a  token,  sweet 
one,  to  wear  next  my  heart  and  guide  me  on  to  triumph." 

The  girl  unfolded  her  scarf  and  took  from  it  a  great  white 
rose,  heavy  with  the  sacred  oils  and  scented  ointments  from 
the  temple,  and  tossed  it  gently  down  to  him. 

"  Here !  I  brought  it  for  you.  But  see !  It  is  your  turn. 
Nay,  go.  You  see  I  am  quite  calm.  I  do  not  even  tremble. 


146  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Ah,  love,  the  gods  will  not  desert  us;  I  know  they  will  not. 
But  go,  go !  Mars  guide  thy  hand  to  victory !  " 

A  look  of  love — a  smile — and  he  turned  to  meet  his  adver- 
sary, a  deep-chested,  brawny  Gaul. 

The  signal  came,  and  with  eyes  that  watched  the  other's 
slightest  movement  the  two  men  moved  gradually  nearer  to 
each  other.  A  stroke  from  the  Gaul  was  parried  and  re- 
turned without  effect.  Another — and  a  third — and  still  no 
vantage  ground  was  gained  by  either.  The  breath  of  both 
combatants  came  long  and  full,  their  breasts  heaved  steadily, 
their  muscles  grew  tense,  their  eyes  burned.  At  length  the 
Gaul,  in  desperation,  struck  a  blow  which  told,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment the  victory  seemed  gained ;  but  at  the  shock  of  the  blow 
a  white  rose  fell  from  the  bosom  of  his  opponent,  and  the 
sight  of  this  poor,  bruised  flower  there  on  the  sands  of  the 
arena  seemed  to  imbue  the  owner  with  the  strength  of  Mars. 
He  rallied.  The  blows  came  thick  and  fast.  The  swords 
rang  out.  It  was  a  fight  for  life  as  well  as  honor,  and  always 
the  two  struggling,  panting  men  circled  around  the  flower 
upon  the  ground.  At  last  the  Roman  gained  advantage ;  he 
tired  the  Gaul,  parried,  never  seeming  to  lose  strength  or 
vigor,  and,  breathing  the  name  "  Nadia,  Nadia,"  struck  hard 
and  fast.  Again  the  Gaul  gained  ground,  but  only  to  lose  it, 
for  Glaucus  forced  him  back,  back,  and  still  back,  when  by 
chance  the  metal  sole  of  the  Gaul's  sandal  came  in  contact 
with  the  anointed  flower;  he  slipped,  fell,  and  was  at  the 
mercy  of  the  Roman,  who  stood  with  uplifted  eyes,  his 
sword  at  the  throat  of  his  fallen  foe.  The  emperor  slowly 
turned  his  thumb  down  and  the  knife  did  its  work. 

It  was  the  last  contest  of  the  day,  and  the  victors  marched 
around  the  arena  singing  the  hymn  of  triumph,  and  halted 
in  front  of  the  royal  dais.  As  they  stood  there,  Nadia  slipped 
along  unnoticed  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall  and  joined  them. 
She  singled  Glaucus  out,  and  stood  proudly  by  him.  At  last 
his  name  was  called,  and  he  stepped  forward  to  ask  his  boon. 

"  Well,"  the  emperor  said,  coldly,  "  what  is  thy  wish?  It 
is  our  will  to-day  that  ye  who  have  fought  well  shall  choose 
your  own  reward,  excepting  life  and  death.  Name  yours." 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22.  147 

"  A  small  thing  to  you,  my  emperor,  do  I  ask :  Permission 
to  marry  my  chosen  love  and  go  back  to  my  native  hills,  leav- 
ing the  arena  to  more  ambitious  ones  than  I." 

"  An  easy  gift.  'Tis  yours.  You  have  my  word." 

The  victor  bowed,  then  staggered.  Nadia  darted  to  his 
side  like  a  flash  of  light,  calling  to  him  to  speak  to  her. 

"  Glaucus !  Ah,  you  are  wounded.  Speak  to  me !  Speak !  " 

"  Nay.     'Tis  but  exhaustion,  Nadia :  I " 

Before  he  could  finish,  the  emperor,  who  had  been  a  most 
astonished  and  unwilling  witness  to  the  scene,  stepped  for- 
ward. 

"  What  means  this  ?  Slave,  what  meanst  thou  by  aspiring 
to  the  fairest  daughter  of  patrician  Rome  ?  Away  with  him. 
I  revoke  my  word.  Bring  the  girl  here.    Away,  I  say !  " 

Glaucus  sprang  forward  and  confronted  him,  towering  as 
though  he  were  emperor  instead  of  supplicant.  The  lictors, 
few  in  number  compared  to  the  gladiators,  stood  back.  Glau- 
cus turned  to  his  comrades  and  spoke,  his  voice  ringing 
boldly  and  fearlessly  throughout  the  amphitheatre: 

"  Men  of  Rome, — or  Sparta, — your  emperor  has  given  his 
word, — -that  word  to  which  all  men  bow  and  hold  as  sacred. 
Never  yet  has  a  Roman  ruler  broken  that  word  when  once 
'twas  given.  Witness  me,  I  have  won  my  contest  and  asked 
my  boon.  'Twas  granted,  but  the  lust  of  your  emperor 
proves  stronger  than  his  honor." 

Warned  by  the  ominous  looks  of  the  populace  that  he  had 
gone  too  far,  the  emperor  broke  in : 

"  Hold !  Enough !  Take  her.  'Twas  but  a  jest  to  prove 
thy  loyalty  to  her.  Ho,  guards !  Proceed,  I  have  enough  of 
this." 

Again  the  glittering  train  filed  slowly  out  through  the 
bronze  doors.  As  the  emperor  neared  the  gate,  a  white 
scarf  slipped  from  the  seat  above  and  fell  upon  him  as 
though  in  mute  benediction.  A  moment  he  paused,  then, 
tearing  the  scarf  from  him  with  a  gesture  of  hatred,  he 
passed  on  and  out.  The  gladiators  followed,  one  by  one,  each 
giving  the  couple  standing  there  in  the  glow  of  the  sunset  a 


i48  WERNER'S  READINGS 

look  of  sympathy  and  triumph,  not  daring  to  show  before 

the  royal  guards  too  much  elation  at  their  ruler's  defeat. 
At  last  Glaucus  turned,  and,  looking  into  the  sweet,  pure 

face  beside  him,  said : 

"  Mars  gained  a  victory  to-day,  sweet  one." 

But  the  girl,  looking  back  to  him,  said  in  a  voice  full  oi 

love  and  trust : 
^    "  Nay,  Glaucus,  'twas  a  victory  of  love." 


THE  WITCH. 


VIRGINIA  WOODWARD  CLOUD. 


[Prom  the  Ladies'  Home  Journal,  by  permission  of  the  author  and  the  Curtis  Pub- 
lishing Co.] 

A  ND  was  it  I,  long,  long  ago,  who  sat  within  the  door  and 
*\     spun  ? 
I  mind  the  hazel  wands  ablow  waved  yellow  in  the  setting 

sun; 
And  my  blind  mother's  voice  within :    "  Come,  daughter, 

put  aside  thy  wheel ; 
Methinks  the  darkness  doth  begin,  or  muttering  of  storm  I 

feel. 

"  'Twould  seem  the  Bird  of  Fear  somewhere  doth  spread  its 

wings  upon  the  skies." 
"  A  thrush,  my  mother,  sings  in  air,  and  to  our  elm  the 

swallow  flies." 
'Twas  thus  I  spake  to  her — alack  ! — while  reaching  straight 

unto  our  sill, 
The  shadows  of  three  crosses  black  stretched  down  from 

Gallows  Hill. 

"  Daughter,  I  hear  the  tramp  of  feet,  that  draw  them  slowly, 
strangely  nigh." 

"  The  wind,  my  mother,  stirs  the  wheat,  and  yonder  mill- 
stream  rusheth  high." 


rAND  RECITATIONS  No.  22.  149 


'Twas  thus,  aye,  it  was  thus  I  spake,  whilst  harkening  a  far- 
off-sound 
Like  to  a  mighty  wave  that  brake  and  beat  upon  the  ground. 

Nearer  and  still  more  near  it  drew :  A  darkly  threatening, 

muttering  throng; 
Louder  the  direful  purpose  grew  which  swept  their  steps 

along — 
"  The  Witch!  The  Witch!  Let  her  come  hence!  r Accuse  her, 

ye  who  will! 
Yon  cross'  shadow  marks  her,  whence  it  falls  from  Gallows 

Hill!" 

Yet  at  the  sill  my  wheel  it  turned,  my  fingers  flew  and  spun 

apace ; 
But  from  the  west  the  sunset  burned  above  a  watching  face. 
"  Daughter,  thy  wheel  I  harken  well;   methinks  'twere  time 

thy  work  were  o'er. 
Alack,  mine  ears  can  not  foretell  whose  steps  approach  the 

door!" 

"  Mother,  our  neighbors  halt  and  pass.  I  bid  them  all  a 
right  good  day." 

"  Nay,  other  feet  are  on  the  grass ;  and  storm  is  threatening 
far  away." 

Without  that  door  they  gathered  round — it  were  full  strange 
a  sight,  I  ween ; 

The  murmuring  of  gloomy  sound,  the  rope  they  bare  be- 
tween ! — 

And  one  stepped  forth  and  raised  his  hand,  and  held  a  writ- 
ten paper  high, 

Pointing  to  where  that  cross  did  stand  against  a  darkening 
sky. 

Then  twirled  my  wheel,  and,  singing,  I  did  close  the  door, 
the  latch  let  fall, 

And  past  the  hazel,  waving  high,  went  down  to  meet  them 
all. 


150  WERNER'S  READINGS 

The  faces  stern,  the  bitter  will,  their  menace  ofttimes  yet  I 

see ! — 
And  'twixt  us,  from  the  darkening  hill,  shadows  of  crosses 

three ; 
And  in  mine  ears,  as  far  away,  where  dusk  crept  gentler, 

softlier  dim 
My  mother's  voice,  at  close  of  day,  crooning  an  evening  * 

hymn. 

Then  spake  the  first,  full  harsh  and  stern :    "  The  Council 

hath  adjudged  it  right 
That  ere  yon  sun  to  rest  shall  turn,  and  ere  another  night, 
That  ere  again  disaster  dire  shall  terror  spread  by  land  or 

sea, 
From  evil  spell,  by  rope  or  fire,  our  soil  shall  now  be  free." 

"  Good  sirs,"  quoth  I,  "  'twere  right  and  well,  if  sin  or  mis- 
chief have  been  done, 

But  they  who  in  this  cottage  dwell  have  taken  and  have 
asked  of  none. 

My  mother  she  is  blind  and  old,  of  gentle  will  and  kindly 
deeds, 

Her  draught  of  herbs,  that  asks  not  gold,  is  balm  for  many 
needs. 

"  Well  versed  in  wind  and  tide  is  she,  as  the  good  sailor-folk 

maintain, 
And  woe  unto  that  boat  at  sea  which  she  hath  bade  remain !  " 
"Enough!  The  maiden  hath  confessed!  "    "  To  death  with 

evil! "    "  Triumph  right." 
Now  God  have  mercy  for  the  thing  that  smote  my  brain  and 

sight ! 

The  coiling  rope — the  cross  of  black — upon  my  soul  they 

broke  them  plain, 
One  bearing  fagots  in  their  track — the  angry  cries  that  rose 

again — 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22.  15 1 

"  The  witch!  The  witch! "    "  She  dwelleth  here! "    "  The 

woman  with  the  evil  eye! " 
"  No  more  unrighteous  power  we'll  fear! " . .  "  Now  bring 

her  forth,  and  let  her-  die!  " 

"  What  mean  ye,  men  ?    No  witch  is  here !    What  came  ye 

hitherward  to  find? 
None  save  my  mother,  threescore  year — a  woman  old  and 

blind- 
Is  'neath  yon  roof!    If  on  her  name  some  idle  tongue  hath 

cast  a  slur 
Let  him  come  forth,  and,  to  his  shame,  learn  of  the  fair 

deeds  done  by  her !  " 

\ 
"  Silence !  "  spake  one.  "  No  more  will  we  be  wrought  upon 

by  evil  might. 
On  yonder  hill  shall  judgment  be  before  another  night. 
She  did  predict  the  storm  which  wrought  disaster  sore  on 

land  and  sea! 
Her  hazel  is  with  magic  fraught!     To  death  with  such  as 

she!" 

"  Away !   ye  know  not  what  ye  do !    It  is  my  mother  sits 

within, 
Stricken  and  old !    Now  whence  come  you  to  reckon  where 

there  be  no  sin? 
Aye,  blind  is  she,  yet  knoweth  well  of  weather  and  of  tide, 

indeed, 
And  to  the  sailor-folk  can  tell  when  they  should  stay  or 

speed ! " 

'Twas  thus  I  cried  in  terror  sore.     Two  stepped  them  forth 

and  drew  anigh, 
Bearing  a  rope.     They  muttered  o'er:     "Perish  the  Evil 

Eye!"  "^ 

Back  to  the  threshold  straight  I  sprang,  mine  arms  thrown 

out  across  the  door ; 
Within,  my  mother  softly  sang  a  homely  tune  of  yore. 


iS* 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


The  hazel  rods  were  torn  aside,  and  hands  unpitying  fell  on 

mine. . 
"  Now,  God  above !  "  I  madly  cried,  "  a  sign !  Send  down  a 

sign! " 
And  if  the  woe  of  one  maid's  cry  pierced  to  high  heaven,  'tis 

God  who  knows. 
A  crash  of  thunder  smote  the  sky,  and  lo,  a  mighty  storm 

arose ! 


Furious  and  frenzied,  lashed  and  tore  the  smitten  branches 
to  the  ground. 

The  faces  turned  unto  the  door  grew  ashen  at  the  awesome 
sound ; 

A  writhing  tongue  of  livid  flame,  a  cry  that  rent  a  fiery 
cloud, 

A  roar,  a  mighty  crash  there  came,  then  darkness  in  a  smok- 
ing shroud. 


'Mid  silence  strange,  the  rain  beat  down;    strangely  the 

darkness  brake  away 
And  rolled  from  off  the  hilltop's  crown,  pierced  by  the  sun's 

last  ray ; 
And  lo,  across  the  door  was  cast,  with  mighty  arms  flung 

out  to  save, 
The  elm  tree,  smitten  by  the  blast,  rooted  from  out  its  grave. 

And  they  whose  purpose  had  been  set  to  a  fell  deed,  a 

work  of  woe? 
(Aye,  in  my  dreams  I  see  them  yet,  when  stormy  wind  doth 

blow!) 
Forth  from  that  place,  in  mortal  dread,  as  though  death 

hunted  in  their  track, 
That  dark,  accusing  throng  had  fled,  nor  stayed  to  look  them 

back. 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22.  153 

And  when  at  early  day  I  urged  my  mother's  steps  with  eager 

will, 
Fragments  of  crosses  strewed  our  way,  washed  downward 

from  that  hill. 
As  the  years  passed  gently  o'er  her,  little  recked  she  what 

befell; 
Nay,  when  at  last  so  peacefully  her  blind  eyes  closed,  her 

hand  sought  mine, 
She  knew  not  of  that  dark  even  when  God  in  mercy  sent  a 

sign. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  SWEET  P. 



VIRGINIA  WOODWARD  CLOUD 


[Prom  the  Ladies'1  Home  Journal^  by  permission  of  the  author  and  the  Curtis  Pub- 
lishing Co.] 

MISTRESS  PENELOPE  PENWICK,  she, 
Called  by  her  father  "  My  Sweet  P," 
Painted  by  Peale,  she  won  renown 
In  a  clinging,  short-waisted  satin  gown ; 
A  red  rose  touched  by  her  finger-tips 
And  a  smile  held  back  from  her  roguish  lips. 

Thus,  William  Penwick,  the  jolly  wight, 

In  clouds  of  smoke,  night  after  night, 

Would  tell  a  tale  in  delighted  pride, 

To  cronies,  who  came  from  far  and  wide ; 

Always  ending  (with  candle,  he) 

"  And  this  is  the  picture  of  my  Sweet  P !  " 

The  tale  ?     'Twas  how  Sweet  P  did  chance 
To  give  to  the  British  a  Christmas  dance. 
Penwick's  house  past  the  outpost  stood, 
Flanked  by  the  ferry  and  banked  by  the  wood. 
Hessian  and  British  quartered  there 
Swarmed  through  chamber  and  hall  and  stair. 


154  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Fires  ablaze  and  candles  alight, 

Soldier  and  officer  feasted  that  night. 

The  enemy  ?     Safe,  with  a  river  between, 

Black  and  deadly  and  fierce  and  keen; 

A  river  of  ice  and  a  blinding  storm ! — 

So  they  made  them  merry  and  kept  them  warm. 

But  while  they  mirth  and  roistering  made, 
Up  in  her  dormer  window  stayed 
Mistress  Penelope  Penwick  apart, 
With  fearful  thought  and  sorrowful  heart. 
Night  by  night  had  her  candle's  gleam 
Sent  through  the  dark  its  hopeful  beam. 

But  the  nights  they  came  and  they  passed  again, 

With  never  a  sign  from  her  countrymen ; 

For  where  beat  the  heart  so  brave,  so  bold, 

Which  could  bafHe  that  river's  bulwark  cold? 

Penelope's  eyes  and  her  candle's  light 

Were  mocked  by  the  storm  that  Christmas  night. 

But  lo,  full  sudden  a  missile  stung 

And  shattered  her  casement  pane,  and  rung 

At  her  feet !  'Twas  a  word  from  the  storm  outside. 

She  opened  her  dormer  window  wide. 

A  wind-swept  figure  halted  below — 

The  ferryman,  old  and  bent  and  slow. 

Then  a  murmur  rose  upward — only  one, 

Thrilling  and  powerful— "  Washington  I" 

With  jest  and  laughter  and  candles  bright, 
'Twas  two  by  the  stairway  clock  that  night, 
When  Penelope  Penwick  tripped  her  down, 
Dressed  in  a  short-waisted  satin  gown, 
With  a  red  rose  (cut  from  her  potted  bush). 
There  fell  on  the  rollicking  crowd  a  hush. 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  si. 


iSS 


She  stood  in  the  soldiers'  midst,  I  ween, 

The  daintiest  thing  they  e'er  had  seen ! 

And  swept  their  gaze  with  her  eyes  most  sweet, 

And  patted  her  little  slippered  feet. 

"  'Tis  Christmas  night,  sirs,"  quoth  Sweet  P, 

"  I  should  like  to  danee !     Will  you  dance  with  me? 

Oh,  but  they  cheered;   ran  to  and  fro, 
And  each  for  the  honor  bowed  him  low. 
With  smiling  charm  and  witching  grace  * 

She  chose  him  pranked  with  officer's  lace 
And  shining  buttons  and  dangling  sword ; 
No  doubt  he  strutted  him  proud  as  a  lord  1 

Doffed  was  enmity,  donned  was  glee, — 

Oh,  she  was  charming,  that  Sweet  P ! 

And  when  it  was  over,  and  blood  aflame, 

Came  an  eager  cry  for  "  A  game !  "   "A  game ! " 

"  We'll  play  at  forfeits,"  Penelope  cried. 

"  If  one  holdeth  aught  in  his  love  and  pride, 

"  Let  each  lay  it  down  at  my  feet  in  turn, 

And  a  fine  from  me  shall  he  straightway  learn ! " 

What  held  they  all  in  their  love  and  pride? 

Straight  flew  a  hand  unto  every  side; 

Each  man  had  a  sword,  and  nothing  more, 

And  the  swords  they  clanged  in  a  heap  on  the  floor. 

Standing  there,  in  her  satin  gown, 

With  candlelight  on  her  yellow  crown 

And  at  her  feet  a  bank  of  steel 

(I'll  wager  that  look  was  caught  by  Peale!)— 

Penelope  held  her  rose  on  high — 

"  I  fine  each  one  for  a  leaf  to  try !  " 

She  plucked  the  petals  and  blew  them  out. 
A  rain  of  red  they  fluttered  about, 


156  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Over  the  floor  and  through  the  air. 
Rushed  the  officers,  here  and  there ; 
When  lo !  a  cry !     The  door  burst  in ! 
"  The  enemy  I"     Tumult,  terror  and  din! 

Flew  a  hand  unto  every  side,— 
Swords  ?— Penelope,  arms  thrown  wide, 
Leapt  that  heap  of  steel  before ; 
Swords  behind  her  upon  the  floor  * 
Facing  her  countrymen  staunch  and  bold, 
Who  dared  the  river  of  death  and  cold, 
Who  swept  them  down  on  a  rollicking  horde, 
And  found  they  never  a  man  with  sword ! 

And  so  it  happened  (but  not  by  chance), 
In  '76  there  was  given  a  dance 
By  a  witch  with  a  rose,  and  a  satin  gown 
(Painted  in  Philadelphia  town), 
Mistress  Penelope  Penwick,  she 
.Called  by  her  father  "  My  Sweet  P."    ^ 


SALLY  ANN'S  EXPERIENCE. 


ELIZA    CALVERT    HALL. 


[Prom  the  Cosmopolitan,  by  permission  of  the  publisher*.] 

C**  OME  right  in  an'  set  down.    I  was  jest  wishin'  I  had 

*^f  somebody  to  talk  to.  Take  that  chair  right  by  the 
door  so's  you  can  get  the  breeze,"  and  Aunt  Jane  beamed  at 
me  over  her  silver-rimmed  spectacles. 

It  was  June  in  Kentucky,  and  clover  and  bluegrass  were 
running  sweet  riot  over  the  face  of  the  earth. 

"  Yes,  I'm  a-piecin'  quilts  again,"  she  said.  "  I  did  say 
I  was  done  with  that  sort  o'  work;  but  this  mornin'  I  was 
rummagin'  around  up  in  the  garret,  an'  I  come  across  this 
bundle  o'  pieces,  an',  thinks  I,  I  reckon  it's  intended  for 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22.  157 

me  to  piece  one  more  quilt  before  I  die.  I  must  'a'  put  'em 
there  thirty  years  ago  an'  clean  forgot  'em,  an'  I've  been 
settin'  here  all  the  evenin'  cuttin'  'em  an'  thinkin'  about  old 
times.  Jest  feel  o'  that,"  she  continued,  tossing  some  scraps 
into  my  lap.  "  They  ain't  no  such  caliker  nowadays.  That 
blue-flowered  piece  was  a  dress  I  got  the  spring  before 
Abram  died.  That  one  with  the  green  ground  an'  white 
figger  was  my  niece  Rebecca's.  She  wore  it  for  the  first 
time  to  the  County  Fair  the  year  I  took  the  premium  on  my 
salt-risin'  bread  an'  sponge-cake.  This  black  an'  white 
piece  Sally  Ann  Flint  give  me. 

"  Did  I  ever  tell  you  about  Sally  Ann's  experience  ?  No  ? 
Well,  'twas  forty  years  ago,  an'  the  way  of  it  was  this :  Our 
church  needed  a  new  roof.  Some  o'  the  winder  lights  was 
out,  an'  the  floor  was  as  bare  as  your  hand,  an'  always 
had  been.  The  men-folk  managed  to  git  the  roof  shingled 
an'  the  winders  fixed,  an'  us  women  in  the  Mite  Society 
concluded  we'd  git  a  cyarpet.  We'd  been  savin'  up  our 
money  for  some  time,  an'  we  had  about  twelve  dollars. 
Well,  one  day  we  held  a  meetin'  to  app'int  a  committee  to 
go  to  town  an'  pick  out  the  cyarpet,  an'  when  we  was  all 
a-talkin'  about  the  color  we'd  have,  all  at  once  'Lizabeth 
Taylor — she  was  our  treasurer — she  spoke  up,  an'  says  she : 
'  They  ain't  no  use  app'intin'  that  committee.  The  money's 
gone,'  she  says,  sort  o'  short  an'  quick.  *  I  kep'  it  in  my 
top  bureau  drawer,  an'  when  I  went  for  it  yistiddy,  it  was 
gone.  I'll  pay  it  back  if  I'm  ever  able,  but  I  ain't  able  now.' 
With  that  she  got  up  an'  walked  out  o'  the  room,  before 
anyone  could  say  a  word,  an'  we  seen  her  goin'  down  the 
road  lookin'  straight  before  her  an'  walkin'  right  fast. 

"  An'  we — we  set  there  an'  stared  at  each  other  in  a  sort 
o'  dazed  way.  I  could  see  that  everybody  was  thinkin'  the 
same  thing,  but  nobody  said  a  word,  till  our  minister's  wife, 
she  says, '  Judge  not/ 

"  An'  them  two  words  was  jest  like  a  sermon  to  us.  Then 
Sally  Ann  spoke  up  an'  says :  '  For  the  Lord's  sake,  don't 
let  the  men-folks  know  anything  about  this.  They're  al- 
ways sayin'  that  women  ain't  fit  to  handle  money,  an'  I  for 


158  WERNER'S  READINGS 

one  don't  want  to  give  'em  no  more  ground  to  stand  on 
then  they've  already  got.' 

"  So  we  agreed  to  say  nothin'  about  it,  an'  all  oi  us  kept 
our  promise  except  Milly  Amos.  She  had  mighty  little 
sense  to  begin  with,  an'  havin'  been  married  only  about 
two  months,  she'd  about  lost  that  little.  So  next  mornin' 
I  happened  to  meet  Sam  Amos  an'  he  says  to  me :  '  Aunt 
Tane,  how  much  money  have  you  women  got  to'rds  the  new 
cyarpet  for  the  church  ?  '  I  looked  him  square  in  the  face, 
an'  I  says :  '  Are  you  a  member  o'  the  Ladies'  Mite  Society 
of  Goshen  Church,  Sam  Amos?  'Cause  if  you  are,  you 
already  know  how  much  money  we've  got,  an'  if  you  ain't, 
you've  got  no  business  knowin'.  An'  furthermore/  says  I, 
'  there's  some  women  that  can't  keep  a  secret  an'  a  promise, 
an'  some  that  can,  an'  /  can.'     An'  that  settled  him. 

"  Well,  'Lizabeth  never  showed  her  face  outside  her  door 
for  more'n  a  month  afterwards,  and  then  one  night  she 
come  out  to  prayer-meetin'.  She  set  'way  back  in  the 
church,  an'  she  was  as  pale  an'  peaked  as  if  she  had  been 
through  a  siege  of  tyohoid.  We  sung  'Welcome,  Sweet 
Hour,'  an'  Parson  Page  prayed  a  pra'r,  an'  then  called  on 
the  brethren  to  say  anything  they  might  feel  called  on  to 
say  concernin'  their  experience  in  the  past  week.  Before 
anyone  got  started,  here  come  'Lizabeth  walkin'  down  the 
side  aisle  an'  stopped  right  in  front  o'  the  pulpit. 

" '  I've  somethin'  to  say/  she  says.  '  It's  been  on  my 
mind  till  I  can't  stand  it  any  longer.  It  was  me  that  took 
that  cyarpet  money.  I  only  meant  Jto  borry  it.  I  thought 
sure  I'd  be  able  to  pay  it  back  before  it  was  wanted;  but 
things  went  wrong,  an'  I  ain't  known  a  peaceful  minute 
since,  an'  never  shall  again,  I  reckon.  I  took  it  to  pay  my 
way  up  to  Louisville,  the  time  I  got  the  news  that  Mary  was 
dyinV 

"  Mary  was  her  daughter  by  her  first  husband,  you  see. 

-■-  'I  begged  Jacob  to  give  me  the  money  to  go  on/  says  she, 
'  an'  he  wouldn't  do  it.  I  tried  to  give  up  an'  stay,  but  I  jest 
couldn't.  Mary  was  all  the  child  I  had  in  the  world;  an' 
may  be  you  that  has  children  can  put  yourself  in  my  place, 


AND  RECITATIONS   No.  22. 


*59 


an*  know  what  it  would  be  to  hear  your  only  child  callin' 
to  you  from  her  death-bed,  an'  you  not  able  to  go  to  her. 
I  asked  Jacob  three  times  for  the  money,'  she  says,  '  an' 
when  I  found  he  wouldn't  give  it  to  me,  I  said  to  myself, 
"  I'm  goin'  anyhow."  I  got  down  on  my  knees,'  says  she, 
'  an'  asked  the  Lord  to  show  me  a  way,  an'  I  felt  sure  he 
would.  As  soon  as  Jacob  had  gone  out  on  the  farm,  I 
dressed  myself,  an'  as  I  opened  the  top  bureau  drawer  I 
saw  the  missionary  money.  It  come  right  into  my  head 
that  may  be  this  was  the  answer  to  my  prayer;  I  could 
borry  this  money ^an'  when  I  went  down  into  the  sittin'- 
room  to  get  Jacob's  cyarpetsack  to  carry  a  few  things  in, 
I  happened  to  look  up  at  the  mantelpiece,  an'  saw  the  brass 
candlesticks  with  prisms  all  round  'em  that  used  to  belong 
to  my  mother ;  an'  all  at  once  I  seemed  to  see  jest  what  the 
Lord  intended  for  me  to  do.  You  know  I  had  a  boarder 
from  Louisville  summer  before  last,  an'  she  wanted  them 
candlesticks  the  worst  kind,  an'  offered  me  fifteen  dollars 
for  'em.  I  wouldn't  part  with  'em  then,  but  she  said  if  ever 
I  wanted  to  sell  'em,  to  let  her  know,  an'  she  left  her 
name  an'  address  on  a  cyard.  I  got  out  the  cyard,  an'  I 
packed  the  candlesticks  in  the  cyarpetbag,  an'  put  on  my 
bonnet.  When  I  opened  the  door  I  looked  up  the  road, 
an'  the  first  thing  I  saw  was  Dave  Crawford  comin'  along 
in  his  new  buggy.  I  went  out  to  the  gate  an'  he  drew  up 
an'  asked  me  if  I  was  goin'  to  town,  an'  said  he'd  take  me. 
I  got  to  Mary  just  two  hours  before  she  died,  an'  she  looked 
up  in  my  face  an'  says :  "  Mother,  I  knew  God  wouldn't 
let  me  die  till  I'd  seen  you  once  more."  As  soon  as  the 
funeral  was  over,  I  set  out  to  find  the  lady  that  wanted  the 
candlesticks.  She  wasn't  at  home,  but  her  niece  was  there, 
an'  said  she'd  heard  her  aunt  speak  o'  the  candlesticks  often, 
an'  she'd  be  home  in  a  few  days  an'  would  send  me  the 
money  right  off.  I  kept  expectin'  the  money  every  day, 
but  it  never  come  till  day  before  yesterday.  She  had  just 
got  home,  she  said,  an'  hoped  I  hadn't  been  inconvenienced 
by  the  delay.  She  wrote  a  nice,  polite  letter  an'  sent  me  a 
check  for  fifteen  dollars,  an'  here  it  is.    Somehow  I  couldn't 


!6o  WERNER'S  READINGS 

confess  till  I  had  the  money  right  in  my  hand  to  pay  back. 
I  reckon  it's  a  judgment  on  me  for  meddlin'  with  the 
Lord's  money,  an'  God  only  knows  what  I've  suffered, 
but  if  I  had  to  do  it  over  again,  I  believe  I'd  do  it.  I've 
been  a  member  o'  this  church  for  twenty  years,  but  I  reckon 
you'll  have  to  turn  me  out  now.' 

"  The  pore  thing  stood  there,  tremblin'  an'  holdin'  out 
the  check  as  if  she  expected  somebody  to  come  an'  take  it. 
Old  Silas  Petty  was  glowerin'  at  her  from  under  his  eye- 
brows, an'  it  put  me  in  mind  o'  the  Pharisees  an'  the  woman 
they  wanted  to  stone,  an'  I  ricollect  thinkin',  '  Oh,  if  the 
Lord  Jesus  would  jest  come  in  an'  take  her  part ! '  An' 
while  we  all  set  there  like  a  passel  o'  mutes,  Sally  Ann 
got  up  an'  marched  down  the  middle  aisle  an'  stood  right 
by  'Lizabeth. 

"  Well,  Sally  Ann  looked  all  around  as  composed  as  you 
please  an'  says  she:  'I  reckon  if  anybody's  turned  out 
o'  this  church  on  account  o'  that  miserable  little  money,  it'll 
be  Jacob  an'  not  'Lizabeth.  A  man  that  won't  give  his  wife 
money  to  go  to  her  dyin'  child  is  too  mean  to  stay  in  a 
Christian  church  anyhow;  an'  things  is  come  to  a  pretty 
pass  in  this  State,  when  a  woman  that  had  eight  hundred 
dollars  when  she  married  has  to  go  to  her  husband  an'  git 
down  on  her  knees  an'  beg  for  what's  her  own.  Where's 
that  money  'Lizabeth  had  when  she  married  you  ?  '  say^ 
she,  turnin'  round  an'  lookin'  Jacob  in  the  face.  '  Down 
in  that  ten-acre  medder  lot,  ain't  it? — an'  in  that  new  barn 
you  built  last  spring.  A  pretty  elder  you  are,  ain't  you? 
Elders  don't  seem  to  have  improved  much  since  Susannah's 
times.' 

"  Goodness  knows  what  she  would  'a'  said,  but  jest  here 
old  Deacon  Petty  rose  up.    An'  says  he: 

"  '  Brethren' — and  he  spread  his  arms  out  an'  waved 
'em  up  an'  down  like  he  was  goin'  to  pray — '  brethren,  this 
is  awful!  If  this  woman  wants  to  give  her  religious  ex- 
perience, why,'  says  he,  very  kind  an'  condescendin',  '  o' 
course  she  can  do  so.  But  when  it  comes  to  a  woman 
standin'  up  in  the  house  o'  the  Lord  an'  revilin'  an  elder 


AND  RECITATIONS   No.  22.  161 

as  this  woman  is  doin',  why,  I  tremble/  says  he,  '  for  the 
church  o'  Christ.  For  don't  the  'Postle  Paul  say,  "  Let 
your  women  keep  silent  in  the  church  ? " 

"  As  soon  as  he  named  the  'Postle  Paul,  Sally  Ann  give 
a  kind  o'  snort.  She  jest  squared  herself  like  she  intended  to 
stand  there  till  jedgment-day,  an'  says  she : 

"  '  The  'Postle  Paul  has  been  dead  ruther  too  long  for  me 
to  be  afraid  o'  him.  An'  I  never  heard  o'  him  app'intin' 
Deacon  Petty  to  represent  him  in  this  church.  If  the 
'Postle  Paul  don't  like  what  I'm  sayin',  let  him  rise  up 
from  his  grave  in  Corinthians  or  Ephesians,  or  wherever 
he's  buried,  an'  say  so.  I've  got  a  message  from  the  Lord 
to  the  men-folks  o'  this  church,  an'  I'm  goin'  to  deliver  it, 
Paul  or  no  Paul,'  says  she.  '  An'  as  for  you,  Silas  Petty, 
I  ain't  forgot  the  time  I  dropped  in  to  see  Maria  one  Sat- 
urday night  an'  found  her  washin'  out  her  flannel  petticoat 
an'  dryin'  it  before  the  fire.  An'  every  time  I've  had  to 
hear  you  lead  in  prayer  since  then,  I've  said  to  myself, 
"  Lord,  how  high  can  a  man's  prayers  rise  toward  heaven 
when  his  wife  ain't  got  but  one  flannel  skirt  to  her  name? 
No  higher  than  the  back  o'  his  pew,  if  you'll  let  me  tell 
it."  I  knew  jest  how  it  was,'  said  Sally  Ann,  '  as  well  as 
if  Maria'd  told  me.  She'd  been  havin'  the  milk  an'  butter 
money  from  the  old  roan  cow  she'd  raised  from  a  little 
heifer,  an'  jest  because  feed  was  scarce,  you'd  sold  her  off 
before  Maria  had  money  enough  to  buy  her  winter  flan- 
nels. I  can  give  my  experience,  can  I  ?  Well,  that's  jest 
what  I'm  a-doin',  an'  while  I'm  about  it,  I'll  give  in  some 
experience  for  'Lizabeth  an'  Maria  an'  the  rest  o'  the  women 
who  betwixt  their  husbands  an'  the  'Postle  Paul  have  about 
lost  all  the  gumption  an'  grit  that  the  Lord  started  them 
out  with.  If  the  'Postle  Paul  has  got  anything  to  say  about 
a  woman  workin'  like  a  slave  for  twenty-five  years  an' 
then  havin'  to  set  up  an'  wash  out  her  clothes  Saturday 
night  so's  she  can  go  to  church  clean  Sunday  mornin',  I'd 
like  to  hear  it.  But  don't  you  dare  to  say  nothin'  to  me 
about  keepin'  silence  in  the  church.  There  was  times  when 
Paul  says  he  didn't  know  whether  he  had  the  spirit  o' 


162  WERNER'S  READINGS 

God  or  not,  an'  I'm  certain  that  when  he  wrote  that  text 
he  wasn't,  no  more  inspired  than  you  are,  Silas  Petty,  when 
you  tell  Maria  to  shut  her  mouth.' 

"  Job  Taylor  was  settin'  right  in  front  o'  Deacon  Petty, 
an'  I  reckon  he  thought  nis  time  was  comin'  next ;  so  he 
gets  up,  easy-like,  with  his  red  bandanna  to  his  mouth,  an' 
starts  out.  But  Sally  Ann  headed  him  off  before  he'd  gone 
six  steps,  an'  says  she: 

"  '  There  ain't  nothin'  the  matter  with  you,  Job  Taylor; 
you  set  right  down  an'  hear  what  I've  got  to  say.  I've 
knelt  an'  stood  through  enough  o'  your  long-winded  pray- 
ers, an'  now  it's  my  time  to  talk  an'  yours  to  listen.  I 
reckon  you're  afraid  I'll  tell  some  o'  your  meanness,  ain't 
you?  An'  the  only  thing  that  stands  in  my  way  is  that 
there's  so  much  to  tell  I  don't  know  where  to  begin.  There 
ain't  a  woman  in  this  church,'  says  she,  ■  that  don't  know 
how  Marthy  scrimped  an'  worked  an'  saved  to  buy  her  a 
new  set  o'  furniture,  an'  how  you  took  the  money  with  yon 
when  you  went  to  Cincinnati  the  spring  before  she  died, 
an'  come  back  without  the  furniture.  An'  when  she  asked 
you  for  the  money,  you  told  her  that  she  an'  everything  she 
had"belonged  to  you,  an'  that  your  mother's  old  furniture 
was  good  enough  for  anybody.  It's  my  belief  that's  what 
killed  Marthy.  Women  are  dyin'  every  day,  an'  the  doctors 
will  tell  you  it's  some  new-fangled  disease  or  other,  when, 
if  the  truth  was  known,  it's  nothin'  but  wantin'  somethin' 
they  can't  get,  an'  hopin'  an'  waitin'  for  somethin'  that 
never  conies.  I've  watched  'em  an'  I  know.  The  night 
before  Marthy-  died  she  says  to  me,  "  Sally  Ann,"  says 
she,  "  L  could  die  a  heap  peacefuller,  if  I  jest  knew  the 
front  room  was  fixed  up  right  with  a  new  set  o'  furniture 
for  the  funeral,"  '  an'  Sally  Ann  p'inted  her  finger  right 
at  Job  an'  says  she :  '  I  said  it  then,  an'  I  say  it  now  to  your 
face,  Job  Taylor,  you  killed  Marthy  the  same  as  if  you'd 
taken  her  by  the  throat  an'  choked  the  life  out  o'  her.' 

"  I  heard  Dave  Crawford  shufflin'  his  feet  an'  clearin'  his 
throat  while  Sally  Ann  was  talkin'  to  Job.  Dave's  farm 
j'ined  Sally  Ann's,  an'  they  had  a  lawsuit  once  about  the 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22.  .  163 

way  a  fence  ought  to  run,  an'  Sally  Ann  beat  him.  He 
always  despised  Sally  Ann  after  that,  an'  used  to  call  her 
a  '  he-woman.'  Sally  Ann  heard  the  shufflin',  an'  as  soon 
as  she  got  through  with  Job,  she  turned  around  to  Dave, 
an'  says .  she :  '  Do  you  think  your  hemmin'  an'  scrapin' 
is  goin'  to  stop  me,  Dave  Crawford  ?  You're  one  o'  the  men 
that  makes  me  think  that  it's  better  to  be  a  Kentucky  horse 
than  a  Kentucky  woman.  Many's  the  time  I've  seen  pore 
July  with  her  head  tied  up,  crawlin'  around  tryin'  to  cook 
for  sixteen  harvest  hands,  an'  you  out  in  the  stable  cos- 
setin'  up  a  sick  mare,  an'  rubbin'  down  your  three-year- 
olds  to  get  'em  in  trim  for  the  fair.  July's  found  rest  at 
last,  out  in  the  graveyard ;  an'  every  time  I  pass  your  house 
I  thank  the  Lord  that  you've  got  to  pay  a  good  price  for 
your  cookin'  now,  as  there  ain't  a  woman  in  the  country 
fool  enough  to  step  into  July's  shoes.' 

"  But,  la!  what's  the  use  o'  me  tellin'  all  this  stuff?  The 
long  an'  the  short  of  it  is  that  Sally  Ann  had  her  say  about 
nearly  every  man  in  the  church.  She  told  how  Mary  Embry 
had  to  cut  up  her -wedding-skirts  to  make  clothes  for  her 
first  baby;  an'  how  John  Martin  stopped  Hannah  one  day 
when  she  was  carryin'  her  mother  a  pound  o'  "butter,  an' 
made  her  go  back  an'  put  the  butter  down  in  the  cellar; 
an'  how  Lije  Davison  used  to  make  Ann  pay  him  for  every 
bit  o'  chicken  feed,  an'  then  take  half  the  egg  money  be- 
cause the  chickens  got  into  his  garden;  an'  how  Abner 
Page  give  his  wife  twenty-five  cents  for  spendin'  money 
the  time  she  went  to  visit  her  sister. 

"  Sally  Ann  always  was  a  masterful  sort  o'  woman,  an' 
that  night  it  seemed  like  she  was  possessed.  The  way  she 
talked  made  me  think  o'  the  Day  o'  Pentecost  an'  the  gift 
o'  tongues.  Finally  she  got  to  the  minister!  I'd  been 
wonderin'  all  along  if  she  was  goin'  to  let  him  off.  She 
turned  around  to  where  he  was  settin'  under  the  pulpit, 
an'  says  she :  '  Brother  Page,  you're  a  good  man,  but  you 
ain't  so  good  you  couldn't  be  better.  It  was  jest  last  week 
that  the  women  came  around  beggin'  money  to  buy  you  a 
new  suit  o'  clothes  to  go  to  Presbytery  in;  an'  I  told  'em 


164  WERNER'S  READINGS 

if  it  was  to  get  Mrs.  Page  a  new  dress,  I  was  ready  to  give. 
I'm  tired  o'  seein'  the  ministers  walk  up  into  the  pulpit 
in  their  slick  black  broadcloths,  an'  their  wives  sittin'  down 
in  the  pew  in  an  old  black  silk  that's  been  turned  upside 
down,  wrong  side  out,  an'  hind  part  before,  an'  sponged, 
an'  pressed,  an'  made  over,  till  you  can't  tell  whether  it's 
silk  or  caliker  or  what.' 

"  Well,  I  reckon  there  was  some  o'  the  women  that  ex- 
pected the  roof  to  fall  down  on  us  when  Sally  Ann  said 
that  right  to  the  minister.  But  it  didn't  fall,  an'  Sally  Ann 
went  straight  on. 

"  '  An'  when  it  comes  to  the  perseverance  o'  the  saints 
an'  the  decrees  o'  God,'  says  she,  '  there  ain't  many  can 
preach  a  better  sermon;  but  there's  some  o'  your  sermons 
that  ain't  fit  for  nothin'  but  kindlin'  fires.  There's  that 
one  you  preached  last  Sunday  on  the  twenty-fourth  verse 
o'  the  fifth  chapter  of  Ephesians.  I  reckon  I've  heard  about 
a  hundred  an'  fifty  sermons  on  that  text,  an'  I  reckon  I'll 
keep  on  hearin'  'em  as  long  as  there  ain't  nobody  but  men 
to  do  the  preachin'.  Anybody  would  think  that  you 
preachers  was  struck  blind  every  time  you  git  through  with 
the  twenty-fourth  verse,  for  I  never  heard  a  sermon  on  the 
twenty-fifth  verse.  I  believe  there's  men  in  this  church 
that  thinks  the  fifth  chapter  of  Ephesians  hasn't  got  but 
twenty-four  verses,  an'  I'm  goin'  to  read  the  rest  of  it  to 
'em  for  once  anyhow.' 

"  An'  if  Sally  Ann  didn't  walk  right  up  into  the  pulpit 
same  as  if  she'd  been  ordained,  an'  read  what  Paul  said 
about  men  lovin'  their  wives  as  Christ  loved  the  church, 
an'  as  they  loved  their  own  bodies. 

" '  Now,  if  Brother  Page  can  reconcile  these  texts  with 
what  Paul  says  about  women  submittin'  an'  bein'  subject, 
he's  welcome  to  do  it.  But  if  I  had  the  preachin'  to  do,  I 
wouldn't  waste  no  time  reconcilin'.  I'd  jest  say  that  when 
Paul  told  women  to  be  subject  to  their  husbands  in  every- 
thing, he  wasn't  inspired;  an'  when  he  told  men  to  love 
their  wives  as  their  own  bodies,  he  was  inspired;  an'  I'd 
like  to  see  the    Presbytery   that   could   silence  me  from 


And  recitations,  no.  22.  1^5 

preachin'  as  long  as  I  wanted  to  preach.  As  for  turnin' 
out  o'  the  church,  I'd  like  to  know  who's  to  do  the  turnin' 
out.  When  the  disciples  brought  that  woman  to  Christ, 
there  wasn't  a  man  in  the  crowd  fit  to  cast  a  stone  at  her; 
an'  if  there's  any  man  nowadays  good  enough  to  set  in  judg- 
ment on  a  woman,  his  name  ain't  on  the  rolls  o'  Goshen 
Church.  If  'Lizabeth  had  as  much  common  sense  as  she's 
got  conscience,  she'd  know  that  the  matter  o'  that  money 
didn't  concern  nobody  but  our  Mite  Society,  an'  we  women 
can  settle  it  without  any  help  from  you  deacons  an'  elders.' 
"  Well,  I  reckon  Parson  Page  thought  if  he  didn't  head 
Sally  Ann  off  some  way  or  other  she'd  go  on  all  night;  so 
when  she  kind  o'  stopped  for  breath  an'  shut  up  the  big 
Bible,  he  grabbed  a  hymn-book  an'  says : 
"  '  Let  us  sing  "  Blest  be  the  tie  that  binds."  ■ 
"  He  struck  up  the  tune  himself ;  an'  about  the  middle 
o'  the  first  verse  Mis'  Page  got  up  an'  went  over  to  where 
'Lizabeth  was  standin',  an'  give  her  the  right  hand  o'  fel- 
lowship, an'  then  Mis'  Petty  did  the  same;  an'  first  thing 
we  knew  we  was  all  around  her  shakin'  hands  an'  huggin' 
her  an'  cryin'  over  her.  'Twas  a  reg'lar  love- feast;  an' 
we  went  home  feelin'  like  we'd  been  through  a  big  pro- 
tracted meetin'  an'  got  religion  over  again." 


The  hen  that  cackles  loudest 

Doesn't  lay  the  largest  eggs ; 
The  mule  that  kicks  the  hardest 

Hasn't  got  the  neatest  legs ; 
And  the  waves  that  toss  the  wildest 

Are  not  of  the  deepest  sea; 
The  fruit  that  is  the  sweetest 

Isn't  on  the  tallest  tree; 
The  dog  whose  bark  is  fiercest 

Doesn't  always  know  the  most; 
And  the  man  who  is  the  bravest 

Isn't  always  on  the  boast. 


1 66  WERNER'S  READINGS 


THE  BETROTHED. 


RUDYARD  KIPLING. 


"  You  must  choose  between  me  and  your  cigar." 

/^\PEN  the  old  cigar  box,  get  me  a  Cuba  stout, 
^-'    For  things  are  running  crossways,  and  Maggie  and  I 
are  out. 

We  quarreled  about  Havanas;  we  fought  o'er  a  good  che- 
root, 
And  I  know  she  is  exacting,  and  she  says  I  am  a  brute. 

Open  the  old  cigar  box,  let  me  consider  a  space; 

In  the  soft  blue  veil  of  the  vapor,  musing  on  Maggie's  face. 

Maggie  is  pretty  to  look  at,  Maggie's  a  loving  lass, 
But  the  prettiest  cheeks  must  wrinkle,  the  truest  of  loves 
must  pass. 

There's  peace  in  a  Laranaga,  there's  calm  in  a  Henry  Clay, 
But  the  best  cigar  in  an  hour  is  finished  and  thrown  away, — 

Thrown  away  for  another  as  perfect  and  ripe  and  brown, 
But  I  could  not  throw  away  Maggie  for  fear  of  the  talk  of 
the  town. 

Maggie,  my  wife  at  fifty,  gray  and  dour  and  old ! 
With  never  another  Maggie  to  purchase  for  love  or  gold ! 

And  the  light  of  the  days  that  have  been,  the  dark  of  the 

days  that  are, 
And  love's  torch  stinging  and  stale,  like  the  butt  of  a  dead 

cigar,— 

The  butt  of  a  dead  cigar  you  are  bound  to  keep  in  your 

pocket, 
With  never  a  new  one  to  light  though  it's  charred  and  black 

to  the  socket. 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22.  167 

Open  the  old  cigar  box,  let  me  consider  awhile ; 
Here  is  a  mild  Manila,  here  is  a  wifely  smile! 

Which  is  the  better  portion,  bondage  bought  with  a  ring, 
Or  a  harem  of  dusky  beauties,  fifty  tied  in  a  string  ? 

Counselors  cunning  and  silent,  comforters  true  and  tried, 
And  never  a  one  of  the  fifty  to  sneer  at  a  rival  bride. 

Thought  in  the  early  morning,  solace  in  time  of  woes, 
Peace  in  the  hush  of  the  twilight,  balm  ere  my  eyelids  close — 

This  will  the  fifty  give  me,  asking  naught  in  return, 

With  only  a  Suttee's  passion,  but  to  do  their  duty  and  burn. 

This  will  fifty  give  me.    When  they  are  spent  and  dead, 
Five  times  other  fifties  shall  be  my  servants  instead. 

The  furrows  of  far-off  Java,  the  isles  of  the  Spanish  Main, 
When  they  hear  my  harem  is  empty  will  send  me  my  brides 
again. 

I  will  take  no  heed  to  their   raiment,    nor  food  for  their 

mouths  withal, 
So  long  as  the  gulls  are  nesting,  so  long  as  the  showers  fall. 

I  will  scent  'em  with  best  vanilla,  with  tea  will  I  temper 

their  hides, 
And  the  Moor  and  the  Mormon  shall  envy  who  read  of  the 

tale  of  my  brides. 

For  Maggie  has  written  a  letter  to  give  me  my  choice  be- 
tween 

The  wee  little  whimpering  love-god  and  the  great  god  Nick 
O'Teen; 

And  I  have  been  servant  of  Love  for  barely  a  twelvemonth 

clear, 
But  I  have  been  Priest  of  Partagas  a  matter  of  seven  year ; 


^8  WERNER'S  READINGS 

And  the  gloom  of  my  bachelor   days    is  flecked  with  the 

cheery  light 
Of  stumps  that  I  burned  to    friendship  and  pleasure  and 

work  and  fight. 

And  I  turn  my  eyes  to  the  future  that  Maggie  and  I  must 

prove ; 
But  the  only  light  on  the  marshes  is  the  will-o'-the-wisp  of 

Love. 

Will  it  see  me  safe  through  my  journey,  or  leave  me  bogged 

in  the  mire? 
Since  a  puff  of  tobacco  can  cloud  it,  shall  I  follow  the  fitful 

fire? 

Open  the  old  cigar  box,  let  me  consider  anew ; 

Old  friends,  and  who  is  Maggie  that  I  should  abandon  you? 

A  million  surplus  Maggies  are  willing  to  bear  the  yoke ; 
And  a  woman  is  only  a  woman,  but  a  good  cigar  is  a  smoke. 

Light  me  another  Cuba ;  I  hold  to  my  first-sworn  vows. 
If  Maggie  will  have  no  rival,  I'll  have  no  Maggie  for  spouse ! 


MR.  BROWN  HAS  HIS  HAIR  OUT. 


7V/I  R.  BROWN  is  one  of  our  most  enterprising  merchants. 
■*  '  *  He  is  voted  among  his  friends  as  being  of  a  very  inde- 
pendent disposition- — in  fact,  in  some  matters  this  independ- 
ence of  spirit  might  be  said  to  amount  to  eccentricity.  One  of 
his  striking  peculiarities  used  to  be  that  of  wearing  his  hair 
very  long.  His  wife  had  frequently  remonstrated  with  him 
on  his  unfashionable  appearance^and  his  daughter  had  ven- 
tured to  inquire  two  or  three  times  when  he  was  going  to 
visit  the  barber,  while  some  of  his  more  intimate  acquaint- 
ances had  even  gone  so  far  as  to  ask,  "  Brown,  why  don't 
you  get  your  hair  cut  ?  " 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22.  169 

He  had  borne  these  questions  and  comments  for  some 
time  in  dignified  silence,  but,  at  last,  feelmg  that  patience 
had  ceased  to  be  a  virtue,  and  also  being  warned  by  the 
singing  of  the  birds  and  the  blossoming  of  the  tr^es.  and 
the  uncomfortable  feeling  of  his  winter  overcoat  that  spring 
was  at  hand,  he  determined,  one  morning  on  his  way  down- 
town to  his  place  of  business,|to  drop  in  and  have  his  hair 
cut,  which  he  accordingly  did.  After  this  he  repaired  to 
the-  warehouse,  entered  his  private  office,  and  sat  down  to 
look  over  his  mail.  Presently  Mr.  Thompson,  the  senior 
partner,  came  in  with  a  budget  of  papers. 

"  Ah !  good  morning,  Mr.  Brown,  if  you  are  at  leisure 
I  would  like  you  to  look  over  this  invoice  of  goodsT  Here 
are  two  or  three  items  that — "  then  suddenly  glancing  up — 
"  why,  Mr.  Brown,  you've  been  getting  your  hair  cut ;  really 
it  is  a  great  improvement." 

"  Ah !  thank  you,"  replied  Mr.  Brown,  with  a  satisfied 
smile. 

They  proceeded  with  their  business,  and  in  a  few  min- 
utes the  junior  partner  entered. 

"  Here  is  a  letter  inquiring  about  goods  that  were  or- 
dered last  week.  Now,  don't  you  think  there  has  been — 
Why,  Mr.  Brown,  you've  had  your  hair  cut." 

"'  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  in  a  rather  more  dignified  tone 
than  that  in  which  he  had  responded  to  Mr.  Thompson,  "I 
have  been  getting  my  hair  cut." 

Presently  the  head-clerk  entered  the  office. 

"  Mr.  Adams  is  out  in  the  store  and  would  like  to  see  you 
a  few  minutes  if  it  is — Oh,  why,  Mr.  Brown,  you've  had 
your  hair  cut !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  in  an  exceedingly  dignified  tone, 
"  I  have  had  my  hair  cut." 

He  went  out  into  the  store  to  see  Mr.  Adams.  As  he 
passed  by  the  desk,  he  heard  the  head-bookkeeper  whisper 
to  another :  "  Brown  has  been  to  the  barber's ;  "  while  an 
errand  boy  who  was  dangling  his  legs  from  the  top  of  a 
high  stool  called  in  a  stage-whisper  to  a  boy  several  feet 
away :    "  Hey,  Tommy,  git  on  ter  de  boss,  he's  had  his  hair 


170  WERNER'S  READINGS 

cut !  "  By  this  time  Mr.  Brown's  temper  was  slightly  ruf- 
fled. But  Mr.  Adams  is  one  of  those  genial  men  who  always 
have  a  smile  on  their  countenance,  and  he  advanced  to  meet 
Mr.  Brown  with  extended  hand. 

"Good  morning;  this  is  delightful  spring  weather,  isn't 
it?  Winter  has — Well,  I  do  declare,  Brown,  you've  had 
your  hair  cut."  } 

Mr.  Brown's  reply  was  short  but  to  the  point. 

"  Yes — I — have— had — my — hair — cut."  ^ 

Every  word  was  emphatic,  and  Mr.  Adams  felt  that,  al- 
though it  was  spring  weather  outdoors,  the  inside  tempera- 
ture had  suddenly  fallen  below  freezing-point.  Without 
further  preliminaries  they  proceeded  at  once  to  business. 
Just  as  Mr.  Adams  was  leaving,  Mr.  Brown's  daughter  en- 
tered.* She  was  evidently  in  a  hurry,  and  told  her  errand 
without  delay. 

"  Ma  has  just  had  a  telegram  from  Mr.  Allen,  and  he 
and  Mrs.  Allen  will  be  out  to  lunch,  and  ma  wants  you  to 
come  right  home  and  order  the  carriage  and  go  to  the  depot 
to —  O  pa !  you've  really  had  your  hair  cut !  I'm  so  glad," 
she  exclaimed,  delightedly,  clasping  her  hands. 

Mr.  Brown  waited  to  hear  no  more,  but  pushing  his  hat 
down  as  far  as  possible  on  his  head,  he  rushed  out  and 
boarded  the  first  car  that  came  along.  It  was  quite  a  dis- 
tance to  his  home,  and  by  the  time  he  reached  there  his  feel- 
ings were  somewhat  soothed.  He  put  his  latch-key  in  the 
door,  but  before  he  had  time  to  turn  it;  the  door  was  opened 
from  within,  and  his  wife  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck. 

".Oh,  I  am  so  glad  you've  come.  I  want  you  to  take  the 
carriage  and  go  right  down  to  meet  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Allen. 
I  should  be  so  mortified  to  have  them  come  and  not  find 
you  there  to — Why,  my  dear,  you've  had  your  hair  cut, 
haven't  you  ?  "  she  said,  in  her  sweetest  tones. 

Mr.  Brown  glared  at  her  so  wildly  that  she  was  fright- 
ened. 

"  Yes,  I've  had  my  hair  cut ! "  he  growled  out,  as  he 
rushed  through  the  house  and  out  to  the  stable.  "  Patrick, 
put  the  grays  to  the  large  carriage  as  soon  as  possible." 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22.  171 

"  Yis,  sor ;  they'll  be  ready  in  fifteen  minutes ;"  then,  as 
a  smile  overspread  his  features,  he  said,  in  his  broadest 
brogue :    "  Och,  sure,  and  yi've  been  havin'  your  hair  cut." 

By  this  time  Mr.  Brown's  feelings  were  too  deep  for  ut- 
terance. A  hen  was  standing  near,  looking  at  him  out  of 
one  eye  in  a  meditative  manner.  As  a  slight  relief  he  gave 
her  a  kick,  which  she  immediately  resented  by  flying  on  top 
of  a  barrel  and  giving  utterance  to  one  loud,  prolonged 
' '  cut-de-cut-cut-got-your-hair-cut-t-t-t. ' ' 


OLE  BULL'S  CHRISTMAS. 


WALLACE    BRUCE. 


My  Landlord's  Prairie  Story. 

[Prom  the  Chautauquan,  by  permission  of  the  publishers.] 

[It  is  very  effective  to  introduce  a  violin  solo  of  "Home,  Sweet 
Home,"  from  the  words  "  Nearer  still  and  ever  nearer  "  to  the  end  of 
the  selection.  If  the  reciter  wishes,  the  lines  enclosed  in  brackets  may- 
be omitted.] 

J\A  OVE  along  a  trifle,  stranger,  just  a  little;   don't  you  see 
*  "  *•      On  the  floor  -that  hieroglyphic,  something  like  the 

letter  B? 
Right  there,  close  to  where  you're  standing,  sort  of  sacred 

spot  we  keep ; 
And  we  always  touch  it  gently,  when  we  scrub  up  once  a 

week. 
[Recent?  Yes,  sometime  last  August,  but  I  put  it  on  to  stay; 
And  the  yellow  pine  will  hold  it  after  we  are  laid  away. 
No  one  sets  his  chair  upon  it  or  he's  straightway  told  to 

shove ; 
For  the  boys,  you  see,,  won't  stand  it;    that's  a  plank  the 

neighbors  love.] 


?  72  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"  Somewhat  of  a  Poet's  Corner,"  once  a  high-toned  traveler 

said. 
They  corrected  him  politely  as  they  showed  him  up  to  bed. 
He  explained  about  an  Abbey,  I  don't  quite  recall  the  name, 
With  a  chapel  full  of  dead  folks  that  had  found  their  way  to 

fame. 
But,  they  said,  this  is  no  graveyard;   here's  the  spot  where 

Ole  stood, 
When  he  told  his  Christmas  story  right  before  the  blazing 

wood. 
Never  heard  him?     Never  saw  him?     Stranger,  you  don't 

mean  to  say 
That  you  never  heard  the  master,  Ole  Bull,  the  fiddler,  play  ? 

Talk  of  classic  art  in  music !     What  was  that  to  Ole  Bull, 

When  his  blood  with  life  was  tingling  and  his  eyes  were 
brimming  full? 

I  have  thought  his  heart  in  rapture  sent  its  pulses  all  the 
way 

Through  the  bit  of  seasoned  timber  that  against  his  bosom 
lay; 

Till  the  fiddle  seemed  a  fixture,  part  and  parcel  of  the  man, 

And  the  trembling  strings  a  network  over  which  his  feelings 
ran. 

He  would  shake  your  sides  with  laughter,  make  you  weep 
as  by  a  look, 

And  between  the  bits  of  music  he  could  talk  just  like  a  book. 

Fluent  speakers!  We  have  had  'em,  noted  men  from  for- 
eign parts; 

But,  for  eloquence,  I  tell  you,  Ole  held  the  ace  of  hearts. 

[He  was  not  the  man  to  filter  idle  jests  through  wabblin' 

lips; 
Born  somehow  to  talk  all  over  from  his  toes  to  finger-tips; 
Just  a  sort  of  natural  battery  filled  the  room  with  life  and 

joy, 

Beaming  face,  with  locks  of  silver,  bright  and  chipper  as  a 
boy.] 


rAND  RECITATIONS  No.  22.  173 

He  would  sit  here  of  an  evening,  reeling  off  the  slickest 

thread; 
And  the  hour-hand  wasn't  heeded  or  the  horses  in  the  shed. 
"  Let  'em  whinner,"  said  the  deacon,  "  they  can  stand  it 

once  a  year; 
And  our  wives — they  don't  expect  us,  when  they  know  that 
*      Ole's  here." 

We  were  all  a  bit  Norwegian,  and  he  seemed  to  feel  at  home; 
Said  no  hearth  shone  bright  as  this  one  from  Christiania 

down  to  Rome. 
He  would  tell  us  his  adventures  in  those  cities  old  and  gray ; 
How  he  struggled,  toiled,  and  suffered  when  he  first  began  to 

play; 
Of  his  failures  and  successes,  praise  and  honor  won  at  last 
From  patrician,  prince,  and  peasant,  wheresoe'er  his  lot  was 

cast. 
But  of  all  his  greatest  triumphs,  he  regarded  this  the  best, 
How  he  won  a  gray-haired  hermit  on  the  prairies  of  the 

West. 

It  was  on  a  Christmas  evening,  well-nigh  fifty  years  ago-^- 
None  who  heard  him  can  forget  it.     Lost  in  sleet  and  blind- 
ing snow, 
Fifteen  miles  from  any  farmhouse,  twenty  from  the  nearest 

town, 
Ole  Bull  had  missed  the  guide-board,  for  the  storm  had 

hurled  it  down. 
Stumbling,  floundering  in  the  snowdrifts,  onward  pressed 

his  noble  gray, 
Led  by  instinct  and  devotion ;   Ole  let  him  have  his  way. 
Many  a  trail  they'd  tried  together,  but  he  deemed  this  trip 

the  last, 
Horse  and  rider  both  must  perish  in  that  wild  and  howling 

blast. 
Hope,  had  died  and  life  was  ebbing,  when,  from  out  the 

cruel  night, 
Far  across  the  fenceless  prairie  faintly  shone  a  twinkling 

light 


174  WERNER'S  READINGS 

[Many  a  time  I've  heard  him  tell  it,  as  he  let  his  fancy  play, 

Till  you  heard  the  storm  about  you,  saw  the  distant  flicker- 
ing ray; 

Felt  your  nerves  and  hair  a-tingling,  all  attuned  to  passion's 
key; — 

There  it  glimmers  like  a  lighthouse  just  above  the  blinding 
sea; 

Fainter  now:    O  bitter  darkness!    idle  vision  of  the  brain; 

Joy !  Behold  the  ruddy  firelight  streaming  through  the  win- 
dow-pane. ] 

"  Steady,  one  more  drift,  my  bonnie !  Bravely  done !  All 
danger  past ! " 

What!  No  word  or  sign  of  welcome?  tried  the  door  and 
found  it  fast. 

Near  at  hand  a  ruined  shelter,  remnant  of  a  cattle-shed; 

Safe  within,  the  gray  was  grateful,  pawing  gently  to  be  fed. 

Soon  a  lantern,  then  a  shadow,  and  within  the  creaking  door 

Stood  a  being  such  as  mortal  never  saw  on  earth  before. 

Fierce  his  bitter  imprecation :  "  Get  you  out,  whoe'er  you 
be! 

I  have  sealed  an  oath  in  heaven  never  human  face  to  see; 

[Heart  and  soul  to  hate  abandoned,  love  by  cruel  fortune 
wronged, 

I've  renounced  for  years,  forever,  all  that  to  my  life  be- 
longed. ] 

Take  your  way!  Begone!  Ay,  perish  in  yon  wild,  de- 
moniac yeast; 

For  the  wrongs  that  I  have  suffered  I  will  have  revenge  at 
least." 

"  Fiend  or  madman !  "  Ole  answered,  seized  his  shoulder 
in  a  trice, 

Led  him  straight  into  the  cabin,  for  his  grip  was  like  a  vice, 

"  I  am  here  to  stay  till  daylight,  asking  neither  food  nor 
grace. 

Sit  you  here  within  the  shadow,  and  I  charge  you  keep  your 
place." 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  22.  175 

Hour  by  hour  went  by  in  silence,  till  the  hermit,  crooning 

low, 
Took  a  fiddle  from  a  cupboard,  woke  the  airs  of  long  ago. 
Ole,   wondering,   looked  and  listened;    though   his  touch 

showed  little  art, 
He  could  feel  the  deeper  music  sweetly  welling  from  his 

heart; 
All  perhaps  to  him  remaining  of  a  brighter,  happier  morn, 
Ere  his  heart  became  a  desert,  and  his  curse  was  yet  unborn. 
Long  he  played  his  old-time  music,  as  unconscious  of  his 

guest; 
Then  with  cold  and  feigned  politeness  turned  and  spake  in 

bitter  jest, 
In  a  tone  of  well-bred  irony,  telling  of  a  better  day, 
"  Will  the  stranger  who  is  with  us  lay  aside  his  cloak  and 

play?" 

Ole  rose  and  took  the  fiddle ;   said  he  never  felt  before 
All  the  conscious  power  within  him  as  upon  that  cabin  floor ; 
Saw  in  vision  panoramic  circling  galleries  of  acclaim, 
With  the-flush  of  joy  ecstatic  and  with  beauty's  light  aflame; 
Felt  the  glowing  tide  of  transport  swelling  from  a  thousand 

hearts, 
And  the  thrill  of  deep  emotion  when  the  tear  in  rapture 

starts ; 
Ah,  but  that  was  gilded  pageant,  this  was  more  than  stately 

dome, 
To  a  lonely  heart  in  exile  he  is  playing  "  Home,  Sweet 

Home." 

Nearer  still  and  ever  nearer,  all  entranced  the  listener  drew, 

Gazed  with  open  eyes  of  wonder  through  his  lashes  wet  with 
dew; 

Thought  his  midnight  guest  an  angel  come  unto  him  un- 
awares, 

As  the  music  softly  stealing  brought  again  his  mother's 
prayers; 


176  WERNER'S  READINGS 

[Long-pent  tears,  their  barriers  bursting,  coursed  his  care- 
worn furrows  free, 

In  that  far-off,  storm-swept  prairie,  where  God's  eye  alone 
might  see : 

Desolate  his  heart  and  harder  than  the  rock  by  Judah's  fold, 

Smote  by  Ole's  rod  of  magic,  woke  like  Meribah  of  old. 

Miracle  of  love  eternal !     Ever  still  life's  mystic  bowl, 

Touched  by  human  kindness,  bubbles  in  the  desert  of  the 
soul. 

Then,  ere  morning  dawned,  like  brothers  he  and  Ole,  side 
by  side, 

Shared  the  narrow  cot  between  them,  made  by  faith  and 
friendship  wide;] 

"  Saved !  ay,  saved !  "  the  hermit  murmured.  "  I  have 
found  my  life  again; 

Learned  a  truer,  deeper  meaning  in  the  words,  '  my  fellow- 
men.'  " 

Then  they  took  their  way  together  when  the  storm  was  over- 
past ; 

In  the  crowded  city  parted,  journeying  on  to  meet — at  last. 

[This  was  Ole's  favorite  story,  which  we  always  liked  to 

hear, 
As  he  stood  before  the  fireplace,  so  the  spot,  you  see,  is 

dear; 
And  at  evening  in  the  winter  when  I  hear  the  village  bell 
Ole's  music  floats  about  me,  all  the  room  seems  in  a  spell; 
And  again  1  hear  him  saying :  "  That  one  hermit  to  enthrall 
Stands  amongst  my  proudest  triumphs,  sweetest,  grandest 

of  them  all."] 


QUAKERESS   AND   OFFICERS. 

QUAKERESS  'to  officers  sent  to  arrest  her  kitsbancT-.  Walk  in.  gentlemen; 
mv  husband  will  see  thee. 

Officers  getting  impatient  -with  Isng  waiting'.  You  said  we  should  see 
your  husband  presently. 

Quakeress.  No,  friend ,  I  said  he  would  see  thee.  He  did  see  thee,  did 
not  like  thy  looks,  and  went  out  by  the  back  door. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  22.  V77, 

IF  LOVE  WERE  ALL. 


Anthony  Hope. 


[By  permission,   from   "The   Prisoner   of  Zenda."  Copyright,  1894,  by 
Henry  Holt  &  Co.] 


[Rudolf  Rassendyll,  a  young  Englishman  who  is  a  distant 
relative  of  Rudolf,  King  of  Ruritania,  and  his  exact  image  in 
looks,  happens  to  be  in  Ruritania  at  the  time  of  an  insurrection 
against  the  King.  The  King  is  taken  prisoner  and  shut  up  in 
ithe  castle  of  Black  Michael  at" Zenda.  No  one  knows  this  ex- 
cepting the  King's  friends,  Colonel  Sapt  and  Fritz  von  Tarlen- 
oeim,  who  induce  Rassendyll  to  take  the  King's  place  until  they 
can  recover  the  rightful  monarch.  While  doing  so,  Rassendyll 
"alls  deeply  in  love  with  Flavia,  the  Princess-,  who  is  betrothed 
o  the  King,  for  State  reasons.  Flavia  has  never  cared  for  her 
royal  lover;  but,  although  she  does  not  realize  any  "more  thart 
io  the  people  that  the  man  who  seems  to  be  the  King  is  some- 
one else,  she  finds  the  monarch  changed,  and  grows  to,  care  as 
nuch  for  Rassendyll  as  he  does  for  her.  At  last,  Rassendyll, 
md  the  few  faithful  men  who  are  in  the  secret,  succeed  in  res- 
cuing the  King.  The  tidings  of  the  conflict  at  the  castle  reach 
?lavia  at  Tarlenheim,  and  she  hastens  to  Zenda,  arriving  there 
ust  in  time  to  meet  Rassendyll  as  he,  badly  wounded,  is  coming 
:rom  the  castle  with  Sapt  and  Fritz.  Rassendyll  tells  the  rest 
>f  the  story.] 

HEN  I  saw  them  coming,  I  sat  in  a  heap  on  the  ground, 
and  buried  my  face  in  my  hands. 

I  heard  a  low  cry  from  the  Princess:  "It  is  he!  Are  you 
iurt?" 

And  she  fell  on  the  ground  by  me  and  gently  pulled  my 
lands  away ;  but  I  kept  my  eyes  to  the  ground. 

"It  is  the  King!"  she  said. 

We  answered  none  of  us;  we  three  were  silent  before  her. 
Regardless  of  the  others,  she  threw  her  arms  round  my  neck 
id  kissed  me,    Then  Sapt  spoke  in  a  low,  hoarse  whisper; 


178  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"It  is  not  the  King.     Don't  kiss  him ;  he  is  not  the  King." 
She  drew  back  for  a  moment;  then  with  an  arm  still  around 
my  neck,  she  asked  in  superb  indignation : 

"Do  I  not  know  my  love?    Rudolf,  my  love!" 
"It  is  not  the  King,"  said  old  Sapt  again;  and  a  sudden  sob 
broke  from  the  tender-hearted  Fritz. 

"He  is  the  King!''  she  cried.  "It  is  the  King's  face — the 
King's  ring — my  ring !     It  is  my  love  I" 

"Your  love,  madam,"  said  old  Sapt,  "but  not  the  King. 
The  King  is  there  in  the  castle.     This  gentleman — " 

"Look  at  me,  Rudolf!"  she  cried,  taking  my  face  between 
her  hands.  "Why  do  you  let  them  torment  me?  Tell  me  what 
it  means.'' 

"God  forgive  me,  madam!"  I  said.  "I  am  not  the  King!" 
I  felt  her  hands  clutch  my  cheeks.  She  gazed  at  me  a$ 
never  man's  face  was  scanned  yet.  And  I,  silent  again,  saw  won- 
der born,  and  doubt  grow,  and  terror  spring  to  life  as  she 
looked.  And  very  gradually  the  grasp  of  her  hands  slackened; 
she  turned  to  Sapt,  to  Fritz,  and  back  to  me ;  then  suddenly  she 
reeled  forward  and  fell  into  my  arms ;  and,  with  a  great  cry  of 
pain,  I  gathered  her  to  me  and  kissed  her  lips. 
********** 

La'te  that  night  I  was  in  the  castle  of  Zenda.  Presently 
Fritz  von  Tarlenheim  came  into  the  room. 

"She  has  sent  for  you,"  he  said. 

"What  does. she  want?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Does  she  know  everything?" 

"Yes,  everything." 

He  led  upstairs,  opened  a  door,  and  gently  pushed  me  in. 

The  Princess  was  standing  by  the  window.  I  fell  on  One 
knee,  and  carried  the  hand  that  hung  by  her  side  to  my  lips. 

"Flavial"  I  said. 

She  trembled  a  little,  and  looked  round. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  22.  179 

"You're  hurt!     Sit  down — here." 

She  made  me  sit  on  a  sofa. 

"How  hot  you're  head  is,"  she  said,  sinking  on  her  knees 
by  me. 

I  had  come  to  humble  myself  and  pray  pardon  for  my  pre- 
sumption: but  what  I  said  was: 

"I  love  you  with  all  my  heart  and  soul."  For  I  guessed 
then  that  she  feared  ,that  I  had  counterfeited  the  lover  as  I  haj 
acted  the  king,  and  taken  her  kisses  with  a  smothered  smile. 

"With  all  my  heart  and  life/'  said  I,  as  she  clung  to  me. 
"Always,  from  the  first  moment  I  saw  you  in  the  cathedral! 
There  has  been  but  one  woman  in  the  world  for  me — and  there 
will  be  no  other.  But  God  forgive  me  the  wrong  I  have  done 
you." 

"They  made  you  do  it.  It  might  have  made  no  difference 
if  I'd  known  it.     It  was  always  you;  never  the  King!" 

"I  meant  to  tell  you,"  said  I.  "I  was  going  to  on  the  night 
of  the  ball  when  Sapt  interrupted  me.  After  that  I  couldn't — - 
I  couldn't  risk  losing  you  before — before — I  must!  My  darling, 
for  you  I  nearly  left  the  King  to  die !" 

"I  know.     What  are  we  to  do  now,  Rudolf?" 

I  put  my  arm  round  her  while  I  said : 

"I  am  going  away  to-night." 

"Ah,  no,  not  to-night." 

"I  must  go  to-night,  before  more  people  have  seen  me.'' 

"If  I  could  come  with  you,"  she  whispered  low. 

"My  God !"  said  I  roughly,  "don't  talk  about  that." 

"Why  not?  I  love  you.  You  are  as  good  a  gentleman  as 
the  King." 

Then  I  was  false  to  all  chat  I  should  have  held  by.  For  I 
caught  her  in  my  arms  and  prayed  her  to  come  with  me,  daring 
all  Ruritania  to  take  her  from  me.  And  for  a  while  she  listened. 
But  as  her  eyes  looked  on  me  I  grew  ashamed,  and  my  voice 
died  away. 

"I  am  mad,"  I  said  sullenly. 


180  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"I  love  your  ma'dness,  dear." 

Her  face  was  away  from  me,  but  I  caught  the  sparkle  of  a 
tear. 

"Is  love  the  only  thing?"  she  asked.  "If  love  were  the  only 
thing,  I  could  follow  you — in  rags,  if  need  be — to  the  world's 
end;  for  you  hold  my  heart  in  the  hollow  of  your  hand!  But 
is  love  the  only  thing?" 

I.  made  no  answer.  r 

"Perhaps  for  some  Fate  lets  it  be.  Ah,  \i  I  were  one  of 
them !  But  if  love  had  been  the  only  thing  you  would  have  let 
the  King  die  in  his  cell.  Honor  binds  a  woman  too,  Rudolf. 
My  honor  lies  in  being  true  to  my  country  and  my  House.  I 
don't  know  why  God  has  let  me  love  you;  but  I  know  that  I 
must  stay.  Your  ring  will  always  be  on  my  finger,  your  heart 
in  my  heart,  the  touch  of  your  lips  on  mine.  But  you  must  go 
and  I  must  stay.  Perhaps  I  must  do  what  it  kills  me  to  think 
of  doing." 

I  knew  what  she  meant,  and  a  shiver  ran  through  me.  But 
I  could  not  utterly  fail  her. 

"Do  what  you  must,"  I  said.  "I  think  God  shows  His  pur- 
poses to  such  as  you.  My  part  is  lighter ;  for  your  ring  shall 
foe  on  my  finger  and  your  heart  in  mine,  and  no  touch  save 
of  your  lips  will  ever  be  on  mine.  So  may  God  comfort  you,  my 
darling !" 

There  struck  on  our  ears  the  sound  of  singing.  The  priests 
in  the  chapel  were  singing  masses  for  the  souls  of  those  who 
lay  dead.  They  seemed  to  chant  a  requiem  over  our  buried 
joy,  to  pray  forgiveness  for  our  love  that  would  not  die.  The 
soft,  sweet  pitiful  music  rose  and  fell  as  we  stood  opposite  one 
another,  her  hands  in  mine. 

"My  queen  and  my  beauty!"  said  I. 

"My  lover  and  'true  knight !"  she  answered. 

And  so  I  left  her  and  Ruritania. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  22.  181 

TOUSOULIA. 


[A  Legend  of  the  Mohegan.] 


Thomas  ^ailey  Aldrich. 


THE  JUNIATA  rippled  at  her  feet, 
And  like  a  fallen  giant  lay  the  sun 
Aslant  the  silent  trees.     Tousoulia 
Was  sad.    The  maiden  had  been  waiting  through 
Three  crescent  moons;  had  marked  them  orb  and  go, 
Like  dreamy  Houris,  down  the  stairs  of  night 
To  bathe  in  mists  behind  the  purple  hills; 
And  yet  her  Indian  warrior  came 
Not  back. 

Thus  to  the  stream  that  wandered  by, 
Thus  to  the  shadows  of  the  coming  night 
Tousoulia  made  her  moan : 
"The  summer  birds  have  floated  to  the  south; 
My  lonely  heart  is  vacant  as  their  nests — 
It  shall  be  empty  till  my  Chief  comes  home! 

''There  are  no  footfalls  that  can  make  me  glad, 
There  are  no  warblings  of  the  lover's  lute, 
At  eventide,  outside  the  wigwam  door. 

"No  tender  hands  caress  me  as  they  used; 
Only  the  lips  of  moonbeams  kiss  my  breast; 
And  I  am  sadder  than  the  Whip-po-will. 

"When  wilt  thou  come  ?  and  is  the  trail  so  long, 
Three  moons  must  stalk  between  thee  and  thy  bride  ? 
She  waits  for  thee  as  eagerly,  Lenape, 


!82  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"As  Earth  for  Spring  to  kiss  it  into  buds! 
The  bending  lily  yearns  for  him  who  will 
Make  her  as  happy  as  a  humming-bird !'' 

And  softly  with  her  foot  she  stirred 
A  clump  of  water-lilies,  and  then  grew  as  mute 
As  moulting  robins. 

Like  a  lark  that  skims 
The  outer  surface  of  cerulean 
Clouds,  shot  a  canoe  from  out  the  shadow 
Of  the  trailing  trees ;  and,  like  a  bloodhound 
On  its  mistress'  knee,  it  placed  its  long  head 
On  the  beach.    Another  and  another, 
And  a  third ;  while  from  them  leaped  a  score  of 
Painted  braves. 

So  softly  came  they,  the  Mohegan  girl 
Perceived  them  not  till  some  dry  branches  cracked 
Beneath  their  feet;  then,  springing  up,  she  threw 
Her  arms  around  the  neck  of  him  who  stalked 
Majestically  as  a  king — 'twas  not 
Lenape.    All  rich  with  blushes  she  drew  back 
And,  at  a  distance,  followed  them  into 
The  Indian  village. 

The  council  fire 
Leaped  high  that  night;  a  scalping  party  that 
Had  been  three  moons  away,  came  opulent 
In  deeds  and  trophies  back.     And  there  were 
Praises  and  welcomings  for  the  returned, 
Wailings  and  wild  sorrowings  for  the  dead. 

The  hungry  fire  was  fed  with  brushwood;  high 
Into  the  night  its  flaming  arms  were  stretched 
Like  one  in  prayer.     Without  the  reaches  of 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  22.  183 

Its  radiancy  stood  Tousoulia, 

With  heart  as  full  of  tears  as  a  cloud  in 

April  time. 

Each  warrior  told  his 
Own  exploits  with  a  wild  eloquence;  then 
As  the  calm  of  stagnant  winds  before  the 
Lightning,  with  its  fiery  finger,  pricks 
The  swollen  cloud,  and  deluges  the  earth 
With"  most  delicious  tears,  a  silence  fell 
Upon  the  plumed  and  dusky  throng.     Then,  like 
The  moanings  of  a  distant  ocean,  broke 
Upon  a  hundred  swarthy  lips  the  name 
Of  all  names  that  Tousoulia  loved. 

War  Eagle  rose;  the  hair  had  fallen  from 
His  aged  head  as  leaves  from  the  grand  oak 
In  autumn  winds.     With  a  big  heart  he  spoke : 
"When  the  Great  Father  scalps  the  forest  trees, 
And  we  have  laid  our  store  of  bear  meat  in, 
Our  young  men  must  take  panther  skins  and  corn 
To  Nemhaw's  wigwam,  for  he  hath  no  son!" 

The  speaker  paused,  and  thro'  the  stillness  trilled 
A  laugh  so  fearful  that  the  couchant  braves 
Sprang  to  their  feet;  the  sleepy  watch  curs  howled, 
And  frighted  squaws  drew  nearer  to  the  fire. 
Tousoulia  pressing  through   the   wildered 
Throng,  stood  by  the  crackling  fire  scornfully. 

"The  great  Mohegan  is  not  dead!"  she  cried. 

"I  hear  the  paddles  of  his  bark  canoe 

Afar,  afar!''     She  paused  like  one  that  hears 

A  sound  i'  the  distance.     "He  will  come.     I'll  wait 

For  him.     He  pants  beneath  the  weight  of  scalps! 

The  great  Mohegan  is  not  dead!" 


184  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Alas!  in  the  too*sudden  shock  of  woe,  her  brain 
Had  lost  its  equipoise,  and  her  mind  went 
Wandering,  like  a  bird  whose  nest  has  been 
Destroyed. 

Through  weary  length  of  autumn 
Days,  she  sat  beside  the  Juniata 
Trailing  her  feet,  the  livelong  day,  among 
The  globes  of  water-lilies,  and  'twas  thus 
She  made  her  moan  unto  the  listening  wood : 

"When  wilt  thou  come  ?  and  is  the  trail  so  long, 
Three  moons  must  stalk  between  thee  and  thy  brldej 
Whose  heart  is  empty  as  a  last  year's  nest?'' 

And  to  this  day  the  spot  is  pointed  out 
Where  sat  the  maniac  girl,  and  saw  three 
Summers  drop  in  leafy  graves,  waiting  for 
Him  who  never^  never  came  to  make  her 
''Happy  as  a  humming-bird." 


CLOWN'S    BABY. 


Margaret  Vandegrift. 


IT  was  on  the  Western  frontier; 
The  miners,  rugged  and  brown, 
Were  gathered  around  the  posters ; 

The  circus  had  come  to  town ! 
The  great  tent  shone  in  the  darkness 
Like  a  wonderful  palace  of  light, 
And  rough  men  crowded  the  entrance—* 
Shows  didn't  come  every  night! 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  22.  185 

Not  a  woman's  face  among  them; 

Many  a  face  that  was  bad, 
And  some  that  were  only  vacant, 

And  some  that  were  very  sad. 
And  behind  a  canvas  curtain, 

In  a  corner  of  the  place, 
The  clown,  with  chalk  and  vermilion, 

Was  "making  up"  his  face. 

A  weary-looking  woman, 

With  a  smile  that  still  was  sweet, 
Sewed  on  a  little  garment, 

With  a  cradle  at  her  feet. 
Pantaloon  stood  ready  and  waiting; 

It  was  time  for  the  going  on, 
But  the  clown  in  vain  searched  wildly; 

The  "property-baby"  was  gone! 

He  murmured,  impatiently  hunting, 

"It's  strange  I  can  not  find — 
Theie!  I've  looked  in  every  corner; 

It  must  have  been  left  behind!'' 
The  miners  were  stamping  and  shouting, 

They  were  not  patient  men. 
The  clown  bent  over  the  cradle — 

"I  must  take  you,  little  Ben!" 

The  mother  started  and  shivered, 

But  trouble  and  want  were  near ; 
She  lifted  her  baby  gently; 

"You'll  be  very  careful,  dear?" 
"Careful?    You   foolish   darling/' — • 

How  tenderly  it  was  said ! 
What  a  smile  shone  through  the  chalk  and  paint,—* 

"I  love  each  hair  of  his  head!" 


186  WERNER'S  READINGS 

The  noise  rose  into  an  uproar, 

Misrule  for  the  time  was  king; 
The  clown,  with  a  foolish  chuckle, 

Bolted  into  the  ring. 
But  as,  with  a  squeak  and  flourish, 

The  fiddles  closed  their  tune, 
"You'll  hold  him  as  if  he  was  made  of  glass Y1 

Said  the  clown  to  pantaloon. 

The  jovial  fellow  nodded; 

"I've  a  couple  myself,"  he  said, 
"I  know  how  to  handle  'em,  bless  you  I 

Old  fellow,  go  ahead  1" 
The  fun  grew  fast  and  furious, 

And  not  one  of  all  the  crowd 
Had  guessed  that  the  baby  was  alive, 

When  he  suddenly  laughed  aloud. 

Oh,  that  baby-laugh!     It  was  echoed 

From  the  benches  with  a  ring, 
And  the  roughest  customer  there  sprang  up 

With,  "Boys,  it's  the  real  thing!" 
The  ring  was  jambed  in  a  minute, 

Not  a  man  that  did  not  strive 
For  ''a  shot  at  holding  the  baby," 

The  baby  that  was  "alive!" 

He  was  thronged  by  kneeling  suitors 

In  the  midst  of  the  dusty  ring,  < 

And  he  held  his  court  right  royally, — 

The  fair  little  baby-king, — 
Till  one  of  the  shouting  courtiers, 

A  man  with  a  bold,  hard  face, 
The  talk,  for  miles,  of  the  country, 

And  the  terror  of  the  place, 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  22.  l87j 

Raised  the  little  king  to  his  shoulder, 

And  chuckled,  "Look  at  that!" 
As  the  chubby  fingers  clutched  his  hair, 

Then,  "Boys,  hand  round  the  hat!" 
There  never  was  such  a  hatful 

Of  silver,  and  gold,  and  notes; 
People  are  not  always  penniless 

Because  they  don't  wear  coats ! 

And  then,  "Three  cheers  for  the  baby!" 

I  tell  you,  those  cheers  were  meant, 
And  the  way  in  which  they  were  given 

Was  enough  to  raise  the  tent. 
And  then  there  was  sudden  silence, 

And  a  gruff  old  miner  said, 
"Come  boys,  enough  of  this  rumpus ! 

It's  time  it  was  put  to  bed." 

So,  looking  a  little  sheepish, 

But  with  faces  strangely  bright, 
The  audience,  somewhat  lingeringly, 

Flocked  out  into  the  night. 
And  the  bold-faced  leader  chuckled,—* 

"He  wasn't  a  bit  afraid ! 
He's  as  game  as  he  is  good-looking; 

Boys,  that  was  a  show  that  paid!'' 

WRONG  TIME  TO  LAUGH. 


'other     [anxiously,    to   son    who  comes    sobbing1  to  her]. 

's  the  matter,  darling? 

)N.     Well,  you  see,  ma,  pa  was  hanging  a  picture  and  he 

ed  it  on  his  toe. 

other  [cheerily].    But,  that  is  nothing  to  cry  about;  you 

i  have  laughed  at  that. 

N  [regretfully  and  enlighteningly],    I  did. 


i88  WERNERS  READINGS 

LITTLE  MAID   AND   THE  SPECKLED   HEN* 


E.  W.  Dennison. 


DEAR  brother  Ben,  I  take  my  pen 
To  tell  you  where  and  how  and  when 
I  found  the  nest  of  our  speckled  hen. 
She  would  never  lay  in  a  sensible  way, 
Like  other  hens  in  the  barn  on  the  hay; 
But  here  and  there  and  everywhere, 
On  the  stable-floor,  and  the  wood-house  stair, 
And  once  on  the  ground  her  eggs  I  found. 
But  yesterday  I  ran  -away, 
With  mother's  leave,  in  the  barn  to  play. 
The  sun  shone  bright  on  the  seedy  floor, 
And  the  doves  so  white  were  a  pretty  sight, 
As  they  walked  in  and  out  of  the  open  door, 
With  their  little  red  feet  and  their  feathers  neat, 
Cooing  and  cooing  more  and  more. 
Well,  I  went  out  to  look  about 
On  the  platform  wide,  where  side  by  side 
I  could  see  the  pig-pens  in  their  pride; 
And  beyond  them  both,  on  a  narrow  shelf, 
I  saw  the  speckled  hen  hide  herself 
Behind  a  pile  of  hoes  and  rakes 
And  pieces  of  boards  and  broken  stakes— * 
''Ah,  ha!  old  hen,  I  have  found  you  now, 
But  to  reach  your  nest  I  don't  know  how, 
Unless  I  could  creep  or  climb  or  crawl 
Along  the  edge  of  the  pig-pen  wall.'' 
And  while  I  stood  in  a  thoughtful  mood, 
The  speckled  hen  cackled  as  loud  as  she  could, 
And  flew  away,  as  much  as  to  say, 
''For  once  my  treasure  is  out  of  your  way." 


'AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  22.  189 

I  didn't  wait  a  moment  then; 

I  couldn't  be  conquered  by  that  old  hen! 

'But  along  the  edge  of  the  slippery  ledge 

I  carefully  crept,  for  the  great  pigs  slept, 

And  I  dared  not  even  look  to  see 

If  they  were  thinking  of  eating  me. 

But  all  at  once,  oh  what  a  dunce! 

I  dropped  my  basket  into  the  pen, 

The  one  you  gave  me,  brother  Ben; 

There  were  two  eggs  in  it,  by  the  way, 

That  I  found  in  the  manger  under  the  Hay; 

Then  the  pigs  got  up  and  ran  about 

With  a  noise  between  a  grunt  and  a  shout; 

And,  when  I  saw  them  rooting,  rooting, 

Of  course,  I  slipped  and  lost  my  footing, 

And  tripped,  and  jumped,  and  finally  fell 

Right  down  among  the  pigs  pell-mell. 

For  once  in  my  life  I  was  afraid; 

For  the  door  that  led  out  into  the  shed 

Was  fastened  tight  with  an  iron  hook, 

And  father  was  down  in  the  fields  by  the  brook, 

Hoeing  and  weeding  his  rows  of  corn ; 

And  here  was  his  Polly,  so  scared  and  forlorn. 

But  I  called  him,  and  called  him,  as  loud  as  I  could, 

I  knew  he  would  hear  me — he  must  and  he  should — 

"O  father!  O  father!"  (Get  out,  you  old  pig) 

"O  father !  oh !  oh !"  for  their  mouths  are  so  big. 

Then  I  waited  a  moment  and  called  him  again, 

"O  father,  O  father,  I  am  in  the  pig-pen!" 

And  father  did  hear,  and  he  threw  down  his  hoe, 

And  scampered  as  fast  as  a  father  could  go. 

The  pigs  had  pushed  me  close  to  the  wall 

And  munched  my  basket,  eggs  and  all, 

And  chewed  my  sun-bonnet  into  a  ball, 

And  one  had  rubbed  his  muddy  nose 


190  WERNER'S  READINGS 

All  over  my  apron,  clean  and  white; 

And  they  sniffed  at  me,  and  stepped  on  my  toes, 

But  hadn't  taken  the  smallest  bite, 

When  father  opened  the  door  at  last, 

And,  oh,  in  his  arms  he  held  me  fast. 


HE  AND  SHE. 


Edwin  Arnold. 


<<QHE  is  dead!''    They  said  to  him:  "Come  away, 
O     Kiss  her  and  leave  her — thy  love  is  clay!" 

They  smoothed  her  tresses  of  dark  brown  hair; 
On  her  forehead  of  stone  they  laid  it  fair; 

Over  her  eyes  that  gazed  too  much, 
They  drew  the  lids  with  a  gentle  touch ; 

With  a  tender  touch  they  closed  up  well 
The  sweet  thin  lips  that  had  secrets  to  tell ; 

About  her  brows  and  beautiful  face 
They  tied  her  veil  and  her  marriage  lace, 

And  drew  on  her  white  feet  her  white  silk  shoes; 
Which  were  the  whitest,  no  eye  could  choose. 

And  over  her  bosom  they  crossed  her  hands — 
"Come  away!"  they  said — "God  understands." 

And  there  was  silence,  and  nothing  there 
But  silence,  and  scents  of  eglantere, 

And  jasmine,  and  roses,  and  rosemary; 

And  they  said:  "As  a  lady  should  lie,  lies  she." 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  22.  191 

And  they  held  their  breath  as  they  left  the  room 
With  a  shudder  to  glance  at  its  stillness  and  gloom. 

But  he  who  loved  her  too  well  to  dread 
The  sweet,  the  stately,  the  beautiful  dead, 

He  lit  his  lamp,  and  took  the  key 

And  turned  it — alone  again — he  and  she. 

He  and  she;  but  she  would  not  speak, 

Tho'  he  kissed,  in  the  old  place,  the  quiet  cheek. 

He  and  she;  yet  she  would  not  smile, 

Tho'  he  called  her  the  name  she  loved  erewhile. 

He  and  she;  still  she  did  not  move  . 
To  any  one  passionate  whisper  of  love. 

Then  he  said :  "Cold  lips  and  breast  without  breath, 
Is  there  no  voice,  no  language  of  death, 

"Dumb  to  the  ear,  and  still  to  the  sense, 
But  to  heart  and  to  soul  distinct,  intense? 

"See  now ;  I  will  listen  with  soul,  not  ear ; 
What  was  the  secret  of  dying,  dear? 

"Was  it  the  infinite  wonder  of  all 

That  you  ever  could  let  life's  flower  fall? 


"Or  was  it  a  greater  marvel  to  feel 
The  perfect  calm  o'er  the  agony  steal? 


•V 


"Was  the  miracle  greater  to  find  how  deep 
Beyond  all  dreams  sank  downward  that  sleep? 

"Did  life  -roll  back  its  records,  dear, 

And  show,  as  they  say  it  does,  past  things  clear? 


192  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"And  was  it  the  innermost  heart  of  the  bliss 
To  find  out  so,  what  a  wisdom  love  is? 

"O  perfect  dead!  O  dead  most  dear, 
I  hold  the  breath  of  my  soul  to  hear ! 

"I  listen  as  deep  as  to  horrible  hell 

As  high  as  to  heaven,  and  you  do  not  tell! 

"There  must  be  pleasure   in   dying,   sweet, 
To  make  you  so  placid  from  head  to  feet. 

"I  would  tell  you,  darling,  if  I  were  dead, 

And  'twere  your  hot  tears  upon  my  brow  shed — 

"I  would  say,  though  the  Angel  of  Death  had  laid 
His  sword  on  my  lips  to  keep  it  unsaid. 

"You  should  not  ask  vainly,  with  streaming  eyes, 
Which  of  all  deaths  was  the  chief  est  surprise — 

"The  very  strangest  and  suddenest    thing 
Of  all  the  surprises  that  dying  must  bring." 

Ah,  foolish  world;  Oh,  most  kind  dead! 
Though  he  told  me,  who  will  believe  it  was  said? 

Who  will  believe  that  he  heard  her  say 

With  the  sweet,  soft  voice,  in  the  dear  old  way: 

"The  utmost  wonder  is  this — -I  hear 

And  see  you,  and  love  you,  and  kiss  you,  dear; 

"And  am  your  angel,  who  was  your  bride, 

And  know  that,  though  dead,  I  have  never  died/' 


